


Blood and Bone

by Skasis



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Boxer AU, Eventual Smut, F/M, Intensely Requited Love, Karen is a badass, Shower Sex, Wall Sex, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, and also a feminist because duh, but lots of happy emotions too, curtis is frank's trainer, frank is soft, give karen page a rich backstory, graphic depiction of feelings, honestly some angst, i started writing the smut and then like ten pages later i was still writing the smut, karen deals with misogyny, lisa and frank jr. call his "uncle curtis", maria and the kids are still alive, mild (very mild) mentions of verbal abuse, slooooooooooooooooow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 96,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skasis/pseuds/Skasis
Summary: Frank Castle is a boxer at the top of his game. Laconic and anti-social, he has a reputation for being an incredibly-tough interview.Karen Page is a sports reporter trying to prove herself in a male-dominated field. She's done playing games--trying to be the "Cool Girl" who caters to the male fantasy--and now she's on a mission to take no shit."For a while, the fact that an interview with Castle lasting longer than 5 minutes even existed was big news. Splashed all over the message boards—circulated among boxing and Castle fans alike. The very concept that someone actually got the man to sit down for more than a breath of time and give multiple-sentence answers to a question—it was huge. Massive. It was the only thing Castle fans could talk about.Until three months later, when Frank Castle disappeared.Then that was the news. It was the only news."





	1. The Beginning AKA "The Meet-Cute"

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a multi-chap fic based off of my one-shot "Total Knock Out." Some things to know:
> 
> 1\. I don't know jack shit about boxing. I'm great a google, though. And pretty fabulous at faking shit. So please don't message me that my boxing terminology isn't perfect--ya girl knows this.
> 
> 2\. I played a bit with Karen in this one. Her background, mostly. Ellison, too.
> 
> 3\. This fic only exists because frank-kaslte on Tumblr sent me an amazing prompt!

March 2012-

 

“Alright sweetheart, follow me. Press holding area is this way.”

Karen tried desperately to keep from rolling her eyes as she trailed after the man with “Barclays Center Manager” written on the back of his shirt. If he called her “sweetheart” or “baby” one more time, she was going to lose her shit. She was going to grab the very heavy, very _expensive_ camera from Foggy’s hand and just bash Mr. Manager’s fucking head in. Or maybe forgo the weapon altogether and claw his eyes out with her perfectly-manicured nails.

But no—she wasn’t. She couldn’t. Because aside from the fact that assault is generally frowned upon in a well-ordered society, freaking out over something like being called “sweetheart” would ruin her image. The image she had worked all year to cultivate: Karen Page, sports reporter for CBS NY; cool girl who could hang with the boys and throw back shots. Hot chick who was into wings, beer, and locker room talk. Who didn’t mind being patronized to, because (again) she was a _cool girl_. Not like other girls—no. _Better_ than other girls.

She felt a bit of bile rising up in her throat at that thought. The things she did in the name of getting ahead in her fucking job. To occupy her hands—the ones itching to strangle someone—she reached up to throw her hair into a ponytail.

“Y’know, I’m a little offended that he doesn’t call _me_ sweetheart.” Foggy leaned over as they followed Mr. Manager through the pulsating crowd of boxing fans, each of whom seemed to have a drink in their hand. “Am I not—I mean, do I not look _sweet_ to him?” He gestured to himself with the arm not gripping his camera: khaki cargo shorts, D &D t-shirt, flip-flops, and messy blonde hair tangled around his shoulders. “Look, I know I’m not traditionally beautiful, sure. But I could pass as some kind of…stuffed éclair, maybe?”

Karen snorted, cracking a smile and smacking him in the arm. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m trying to be angry here.”

“I thought that was my job. To wait until I see that little tick in your jaw and then say something to make it go away. Defuse the tension and all that.” He pointed to Karen’s still visibly-clenched jaw, eyebrows raised.

“Your job is to point and shoot, my friend.” Karen reached out and tapped his camera. “ _My_ job is to not fuck things up.”

And that job was _extra_ important on this particular day: the 2012 World Boxing Association Convention.

Karen had been working as a sports reporter for CBS NY for a little over a year, and this was the first time she’d been sent to an event as important as the WBA convention. And the first time she’d been assigned to cover _boxing_. No matter what happened, she was _not_ going to fuck it up; she’d worked too hard for this chance to let anything sour it.

When she’d graduated a little over a year ago from Columbia University, earning her M.S. in Broadcast Journalism, Karen had immediately set out looking for jobs as a sports reporter. While the rest of her colleagues from the program were still hemming and hawing about what field they wanted to enter, there was never any question in Karen’s mind about what she was meant to be. She was a pure sports fanatic—basketball, baseball, hockey, soccer, tennis, boxing—you name it, and Karen was probably into it; could talk about it for hours, _ad nauseum_. It was a by-product both of growing up in a rural town which, like most rural towns, worshipped their athletic teams, and spending all of her time with an older brother and a father who were very into the ideal of the strong, male athlete. Her entire childhood, when she looked back at it now, felt like one long string of Saturdays spent sitting in front of the TV, wedged between Kevin and her dad, watching sports. (The memories were bittersweet—though more bitter than sweet these days—for a number of reasons).

And yet, despite the fact that she was practically a walking encyclopedia of statistics and sports history, finding a job in her chosen field had proven very, very difficult. For months after graduating, she’d lived on the paltry wages of a bartender while searching for work. But none of the respectable newsrooms wanted a female sports reporter—especially one with an actual brain in their head. She’d received so many rejection letters, that she could have wallpapered her bedroom with them. Of course, she’d also received numerous offers from sites like Barstool Sports, who were looking for a blonde willing to wear skimpy clothes and interview athletes about their love lives. She’d turned them down— _hard_.

It had been a rough few months, as friends and family alike had begged her to look for any other kind of job. To take a post as an anchor for a local channel, or work as an administrative assistant in one of the big newsrooms—anything to get her foot in the door. But Karen had said no—it was either a position as a sports reporter, or nothing.

Her only saving grace had been her friendship with Trish Walker, her old roommate from the undergrad years at Columbia, who was currently working as a head anchor at CBS NY Nightly News. When a position in the sports department had popped up, Trish had gone straight to Mitchell Ellison, the sports news director, and had lobbied _hard_ for Karen. Luckily, Trish was enough of a big name at the station to have some pull.

And when Karen got that call from Ellison—the one she’d been waiting and hoping for—she’d been ecstatic. Overwhelmed; the way people are wont to feel when their dreams seem to be coming true. She’d gone out that night and bought Trish the most expensive bottle of champagne she could reasonably afford. Her enthusiasm, however, was incredibly short-lived, because working for CBS NY sports news was _nothing_ like she’d imagined it would be.

First of all, Ellison only seemed to trust her with the most boring, pointless stories. Fluff pieces about semi-famous golfers donating a bunch of clubs to a children’s center; interviews with no-longer-relevant baseball players reminiscing about their days in Yankee stadium; coverage of events like the Rangers’ Family Day, in which she interviewed hockey WAGs about what it was like being married to a famous athlete. It was obvious discrimination—only giving her human interest stories that he clearly felt were within the “female” scope of reporting. (Despite Karen begging— _begging_ —to cover sports like boxing; to let her unleash some of her considerable know-how on an assignment actually worth a damn).

And secondly, when she _was_ allowed to interview real, honest-to-god athletes, they treated her like she had the plague. It was like pulling teeth, getting the short stop for the Mets to talk to her, or convincing the coach of the Knicks to look her way. Eventually, the only other female sports reporter that Karen knew—Danica Stewart from NBC—pulled her aside with a little advice. Apparently, Karen’s elegant chignon and pressed, silk blouses weren’t doing her any favors. The athletes wouldn’t talk to her as long as she looked like an outsider—like some strict schoolmarm there to scold them. All her high heels and red lipstick were doing was reminding them that she was a woman, which, apparently, was not conducive to getting good interview material. It had rankled at her—the idea that her appearance was the only thing keeping athletes from talking to her—but the advice had rung true. Sports, no matter what sport you were talking about, was a boy’s club. And that meant that she had to fashion herself in such a way as to appeal to the boys.

And thus began the era of the “Cool Girl.” Of wearing jerseys and jeans and sneakers; backwards baseball caps and war paint on her face. Of pretending to like Adam Sandler movies and laughing whenever an athlete made a crude joke. It felt a bit like selling her damn soul, sure, but as soon as Karen adopted the stance of the cool girl—who could hang and throw back beers—athletes started actually talking to her. Not treating her any better, or with any measure of respect, mind you, but at least talking to her. In a way that Jess back at the station could edit together to create a cohesive interview for air. Her stock began to rise—marginally.

Which was how she ended up finally getting the opportunity to cover the WBA convention. Well, _that_ and the fact that the Anderson Fray, the guy to usually cover these events, was out with mono.

“Don’t worry, Kare.” Foggy bumped into her as he swerved to avoid a large, brawny man walking around with what looked like his girlfriend on his shoulders. “You won’t fuck it up. And even if you do, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll just go back to covering golf!”

“Wow. Great pep talk, Fog.” Karen ducked to evade the blows of a very drunk boxing fan, who was swinging his arms around in an imitation of a jab.

“I try.” Foggy shrugged. He’d been her assigned camera man since day one, and it had been the only good thing about the job. No matter how shitty things got, at least Karen always had a friend at her back. Or, in this case, smooshed against her side.

They were shoulder-to-shoulder, squeezing through the crowds of the over-packed convention center, which was filled with booths selling boxing gear and merch, or else little pop-up stands with energy drinks and various kinds of no-doubt horrible alcohol (Mountain Dew Smirnoff? Yikes.). Foggy hated conventions—of any kind—as they always seemed to bring out the most overzealous of the sports fans. But a _boxing_ convention was his nightmare. So much Ed Hardy—everywhere he looked, more Ed Hardy. Of course, he should have known what the crowd was going to be like the second he stepped into the parking lot; he’d counted twelve window stickers of Calvin peeing on the backs of souped-up trucks. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Karen loved the sport so much.

“Okay, so here’s how it’s going to go.” Mr. Manager, whose name tag read ‘Antoni,’ led Karen and Foggy down a side hallway, drawing them away from the mass of bodies gathered in the main lobby of the stadium. “We’ve got some of the boxers in the press room, sitting behind a table—panel style. Reporters lined up outside. You’ll have a few minutes to prep them for your questions before you start rolling, then as soon as the camera’s on, you got five minutes to interview. Okay, dollface?” He turned to look at Karen over his shoulder. She bit her lip so hard she was sure it was going to bleed.

“Perfect. Thanks.” The sugary coating on her voice was beginning to wear thin. Foggy shot her a glance, somewhere between sympathetic and warning.

“Alright. Well, this is where I leave you.” Antoni led them down one more hallway, turning to deposit them in front of the press room, where a line of reporters and camera men were already waiting.

“Uh thanks,” Karen nodded to Antoni’s back, as he was already walking away. She took a deep breath before facing the gathered reporters, many of whom she recognized. And did not particularly like. Just a row of inoffensive, Chad-looking assholes with their perfect, white teeth and spray tans.

“Woah, hey guys! Look at little Karen, finally covering some _real_ action!” Brad Whittington, of Fox News, was the first to spot her, jabbing his elbow into the guy next to him and pointing her direction with a jerk of his chin.

Karen’s hands flexed at her sides.

“So they bumped you up from baby puff pieces, huh?” Another reporter, whose name Karen had purposely forgotten, raised his brow at her.

“I don’t know if you’re ready to handle the real shit, darling. Some of these boxers can be tough cases. Not your usual beat.” A crew cut with a smirk spoke up. “I know you’re used to interviewing your little tennis players and soccer stars.” The derision in his voice was maddening.

But Karen ignored them all, gesturing for Foggy to follow her as she stood at the back of the line, avoiding eye contact as she went. She’d learned, very early on, that the best way to deal with these assholes was to pretend they didn’t exist. Now, it wasn’t her _preferred_ way—her preferred way involved a little bit of verbal carnage. But she knew the second she opened her mouth, it would be over. Her reputation would be ruined. So it was better to just go on, head-down and mouth closed, as much as it hurt her to do.

“Ah, leave her alone.” Drew Wash, Brad’s camera man at Fox, shook his head. “Poor thing’s probably intimidated enough as it is. Don’t need to pile on to her, huh?” He shot Karen a pitying smile, giving her a thumb’s up. Somehow, it was more infuriating than the shit talk from the other guys.

“See, this never happens to us when we cover golf.” Foggy leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I love golf. Everyone is so nice when we do golf.”

“For the last time, Fog,” Karen nudged him in the side, a little sharply, “I am not going to start asking for more golf assignments.”

“Your loss.” He grumbled, shifting his camera from one shoulder to the other.

Karen opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by the door to the press room swinging open; a man dressed in a navy suit and sporting a Prime Time haircut stepped out, trailed by a camera guy.

“Hey, Alex!” Brad pushed off the wall to get Navy Suit’s attention. “What’s the atmosphere like in there, huh?”

“Uh, well it’s Marshall Lee, Grant Hass, and Frank Castle. So you can probably guess what that’s like.” Navy Suit—Alex—shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. Karen squinted at him for a moment, trying to place him. He was from one of the smaller, local channels, she knew that much. But she wasn’t sure which one.

“Let me guess—Marshall and Grant cracking jokes the whole time and Castle sitting there stone-faced, as per usual?”

“Yep. Think I got one syllable out of Castle the whole time.”

“Jesus. Why do they keep picking him for these panels?” Brad sighed, slumping back against the wall.

“Because he’s well on his way to the number one spot, Whittington. He may be a surly asshole, but the guy can box.” Alex rocked back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at his camera man, who was turning down the hallway. “Well good luck.”

“Yeah. Gonna need it with Castle for sure.”

Karen’s heart rate ticked up as she followed the conversation, spiking when she heard Frank Castle’s name mentioned. She’d thought—hoped—that she’d get a chance to meet him, but she hadn’t banked on it.

Frank Castle was the hot-ticket boxer on everyone’s lips. He’d shown up on the circuit about a year ago—out of absolutely nowhere—and had taken the WBA by storm. Part of his appeal was the fact that he was so damn versatile; nobody could agree on the style of boxer he was. Some matches, he was pure counterpuncher: stunning footwork, ring smarts, playing defensively. And other times he was all slugger—relentless power, damn the finesse and damn the strategy, he was out for blood. But no matter how he chose to box, his style was explosive. Raw voltage the likes of which the WBA hadn’t seen in years.

With a trainer that nobody had ever heard of, and managed by the most obscure company in the game, his rapid ascent to stardom had been the intrigue of the hour. There were rumors, as there always were with the upstarts, that he’d come up through the underground circuit. Or that he’d been in prison, and had learned how to box from the inmates. Or, alternatively, that he was an ex-Marine, who’d taken up fighting overseas. None of the rumors could be confirmed, though, because Castle was notoriously private. Nobody even knew if the guy had a family. But that didn’t stop the rumor mill from buzzing like crazy.

Karen had followed his career obsessively, watching his matches in between rounds at the PGA Tour and looking up his stats when she should have been doing research on whichever retired tennis player Ellison wanted her to interview. To say she was a fan would be an understatement—the man was a god in the ring. Had earned the name “The Punisher” due to how many of his opponents got carried out on a stretcher.

And now she’d have the opportunity to interview him. It was all a little overwhelming. Glancing over at Foggy, who had been fiddling with the settings on his camera, she took a deep breath. She could do this.

 

Frank was tired. Not physically tired, as he tended to be after a day of Curtis training him into the ground, but _mentally_ tired. The way he felt after sitting through endless, draining interviews. One after the other—all the same—fussy looking guys with perfectly-coiffed hair and pressed suits, asking him about what he thinks his chances are in his upcoming match against who the fuck ever.

It was exhausting. Press was the worst part of his job—trying not to lose his mind at getting the same “hard hitting” questions over and over again, as if anyone really cared about his answers. Nobody wanted to hear him speak—to hear what he had to say. They just wanted to watch him box; to see his fists fly. And that was just the goddamn truth.

“You know, we haven’t had one chick reporter all day.” Grant, who was sitting to Frank’s left, grumbled.

“I bet if we were fucking baseball players or some shit, we’d have lady reporters around here all the time.” Marshall, lounging carelessly in his chair at Frank’s right, piped up.

“Yeah. But nobody wants to send in the babes to talk to our ugly mugs. We’d just scare them off. Especially Castle over there.” Grant folded a paper football out of the interview schedule that had been sitting on the table in front of him all day, flicking it off of the raised dias where they sat. It fell limply to the middle of the floor.

Jesus Christ. Frank clenched his fists under the table. The other terrible part about sitting for press was dealing with the assholes he called his colleagues. Trying to tamp down his natural instinct to start some shit every time they opened their mouths and something unbearably idiotic popped out. He had a reputation for being laconic and unsociable—for keeping to himself—but who could blame him when Grant Hass and Marshall Lee were the only people he had to talk to? He’d rather cut his tongue out than go with them to whatever douchey bar they were sure to frequent after their matches. (He’d seen the pictures they posted on Instagram, of shot girls pouring liquor down their throats as they tore their shirts off on top of a table. Not his scene.)

The door to the press room opened, and both Marshall and Grant shifted forward in their seats, expectantly. It was the final interview of the day, and they were eager to get it over with.

“Fuck. Spoke too soon.” Marshall whispered under his breath.

Frank looked up, and almost did a double take. Blonde hair, blue eyes, legs for miles; dressed in jeans and a WBA t-shirt, the woman looked less like a reporter and more like a boxing fan’s fantasy come to life. Her eyes scanned the table, flitting over Grant and Marshall quickly, then settling on him for a moment. Her smile ticked upward, then she looked away. Frank instantly felt a spike of something unfamiliar in his gut—something that felt a little bit like dread—Marshall and Grant were going to eat this one alive. Following behind her in that dutiful way camera men had was a stocky blonde with a nervous look on his face.

“Well, well, well.” By the tone of his voice, Frank could tell that Hass was about the say something terrible. But then again, when _wasn’t_ Hass saying something terrible? “It ain’t my birthday, so who ordered the stripper?” Grant leaned forward, placing his chin into his palm and leering at the woman, who glanced up sharply. She smiled, but Frank noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the smile of someone hiding another reaction—desperately.

“Sorry, boys, but I’m just here to ask questions.” Her voice was saccharine, but curt. Something sharp underneath. She climbed up onto the dias where the table was set up, panel-style, and took a seat in the interviewer’s chair. He saw her about to cross one leg over the other, but she seemed to rethink the move, instead planting both feet on the ground, steadying. Her back was ramrod straight—uncomfortable. “Karen Page, from CBS NY.” She pointed to her press pass.

“Well, pretty Karen, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time after the questions to get to know each other, huh?” Marshall shifted forward as well, his eyes glued to the reporter.

“We’ll see. Who knows?” Karen brushed him off with a wink, but it seemed forced. Her grin cracking at the edges. Frank—always a keen eye—caught it all. “Now we just have a few minutes for me to prep you for your questions, so let’s—”

She was cut off by Marshall.

“I only have _one_ question for you. And it’s very important, so I’m going to need an answer,” he put on his smarmiest grin. “You seeing anyone right now? A boyfriend? Husband? Fuck buddy?”

Karen paused, taking a deep breath, then pasted a smile on her face. “You know, that sounds like a discussion for after the interview, huh? Right now I want to focus on asking some questions about your style against—”

“Oooh, she evades the question.” Grant leaned around Frank to raise a brow at Marshall. “I think that means no.”

“Which means I’ve got a shot, huh?” Marshall nodded to himself. And Frank fought the urge to smack him across the head. But it wasn’t worth it, he reminded himself. Engaging in any kind of physical altercation outside of the ring was grounds for disqualification. No matter how badly he wanted to knock the smirk off of Lee’s fucking face.

Karen shifted in her seat, feeling her jaw begin to tick in that way that always prefaced a blow up. She shot a glance at Foggy, who had paused in setting up his tripod to level her with a sympathetic look.

Frank watched the exchange, and noted with interest the spark of rage he could see seething behind her eyes. But when she turned back to look at Grant and Marshall, it was with a plastic grin. Eyes almost glazed. Interesting.

“I’m curious, Mr. Hass, about the way that your style seemed to shift from a focus on footwork to an attempt at slugging in the past few—”

“Oh, come on, why are we talking about boxing when Marshall here is clearly trying to see if you’re single or not? You’re no fun.” Grant waved off her attempts to prep him for her questions, sitting back with a huff.

Frank observed the play of emotions on the reporter’s face—nostrils flaring, tips of her ears turning red, corners of her mouth flicking down. Then she seemed to force herself to visibly relax—one muscle at a time. And the plastic smile was back.

“Aww, I’m sorry, boys. You know how it is. Gotta get the business out of the way first.” There was something flirty in her voice—but synthetic. Like a waitress trying to get a big tip out of a dirty old man. It sent an unpleasant sensation crawling across Frank’s skin.

He crossed his arms, puzzled by the woman, who was clearly fighting down a not insignificant amount of violence. Glancing at Grant, then at Marshall, he noticed they both seemed pleased by her response, oblivious to any tension under her surface.

“Now, if we could just—” Karen opened her mouth again, but was cut off by someone sticking their head in through the press door. It was Grant and Marshall’s manager—a slimy little man with a penchant for Bolero ties.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he spoke up. “But Mr. Hass and Mr. Lee have a five minute break written in to the contract when they’ve been interviewing for more than two hours. So they’re going to go ahead and take that now.”

Karen looked like she was ready to explode—or implode, Frank couldn’t decide—as she nodded pleasantly.

“Of course, of course.” Her smile was mild as she turned back at Grant and Marshall. “You go ahead and take your break. We’ll start the interview afterwards.”

She didn’t wait for a response before she was out of her seat and rushing to the side door—the one that led to the alleyway outside. She needed some fresh fucking air.

Frank watched as the cameraman followed her.

There was a pause, then:

“Well, this certainly is going to be fun.” Grant leaned back, smirking, arms behind his head.

“Did you see that ass? Like you could bounce a quarter off of it.” Marshall threw in his clearly-valuable two cents.

“God, what I wouldn’t give to—”

Frank stood up, his chair screeching across the floor, before Grant could finish his sentence. If he sat there for a moment longer, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to control his actions. Lee and Hass were in-fucking-sufferable. Without turning to look at either of his colleagues, he made his way to the side door the reporter had disappeared through. He pressed a hand to the knob, opening it a crack, and could hear her angry voice from down the alley a ways.

“I swear to fucking God, Fog. The next asshole to call me ‘baby’ is getting his ass kicked. I won’t be responsible for my actions. Patronizing pieces of shit, treating me like human meat. Did you know I have a fucking _Master’s degree_ in sports journalism? A Master’s degree! All so some assholes who can take a punch can ask me about my personal life and leer at me as if I’m some fucking object for sale?!”

Frank glanced over his shoulder, and saw Hass and Lee disappearing through an opposite door—the one that led to the bathroom.

“Karen, calm down. Please.” The camera man’s voice was pleading. “You were the one who was so adamant about taking this job. We just have to get through five minutes with those douchebags, then we’re home free.”

“I know, I know!” Karen’s voice was a huff. Then she let out a muffled screeching noise, as though screaming with her hands over her mouth. There was a pause; heavy breathing, then: “I’m okay, I’ve got this. I’ve got this.” She didn’t sound at all convinced of her own mantra.

Frank hesitated a moment. As a rule, he tried not to go out of his way to speak to reporters. But he felt bad for the woman—Lee and Hass had been out of line talking to her that way. And, to be quite honest, he was fucking tired of listening to them jerk around like teenagers. Somebody needed to put them in their place.

He looked over his shoulder again, double-checking that the room was clear, then pushed the door open completely. Two heads whipped his way instantly, and he saw Karen’s eyes grow wide, face blanching when she realized who he was. He stepped into the alley, hands in his pockets, and just stared at her for a moment. She looked horrified, no doubt embarrassed that he’d overheard her little meltdown.

Nobody said a word. In fact, the camera man—Foggy—looked almost frozen in place.

“Can I, uh…offer some advice?” His voice sounded a little rusty in his ears. He’d been actively avoiding speaking all day, just to piss off the smarmy interviewers with their Invisalign grins.

Karen and Foggy exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke, so Frank continued.

“Uh, look, Miss Page.” He tilted his head toward her. “You don’t have to sit there and take that shit from ‘em, huh? Clearly you got some fire in ya. You can let ‘em have it.”

He watched as Karen’s eyes shaded with something dark—something raw—a glimpse at what appeared to be years of suppressed fire leaking through. It was a look that had Frank’s pulse spiking; the look of a dangerous woman.

But she didn’t speak. Just continued to hold his gaze. Foggy’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, confused.

“All I’m sayin’ is…” Frank trailed off, shrugging noncommittally. “You don’t have to be this… _thing_ that you think you gotta be. With the smiles and the flirting. Fuck that.” He glanced away with a frown. “Anyway, that’s all I had to say.”

He waited for a moment, but nobody spoke. They just continued to stare at him like he was some strange creature. So he shuffled on his feet before turning and walking back into the press room.

Karen waited until the door had clanged to a close behind him before wheeling on Foggy, the look on her face somewhere between pleased and horrified.

“What the fuck?” She whisper-yelled. “Did Frank Castle just tell me to grow a pair and put those dicks in their place?”

“Uh,” Foggy ran a hand through his hair. “I think he did. So…what are you gonna do?”

“Well,” Karen paused, as though considering. “I think I’m going to grow a pair and put those dicks in their place.”

 

When Karen walked back into the press room, followed by her cameraman, Frank noticed immediately the change in her stance. Shoulders thrown back; eyes blazing. Oh, this was going to be good.

Marshall attempted to greet her with a smirk as she took her seat, but she ignored him, instead turning to the camera and adjusting the clipped-on mic at her chest.

“Foggy. Give me the signal when you’re ready.” She nodded curtly, her mouth just this side of grim.

Marshall and Grant exchanged a confused look—what had happened to the smiling, flirty reporter from before? She hadn’t even spared a glance their way.

“Alright, we’re going in 5, 4, 3...” Foggy trailed off, mouthing the last few numbers.

“I’m Karen Page with CBS NY, here at the Barclays convention center with Grant Hass, Marshall Lee, and Frank Castle, who are all here to—”

“To kick ass and take names,” Grant interrupted, winking into Foggy’s camera. There was a moment’s pause, in which Karen’s head swiveled slowly toward Grant, her eyes heated.

“I don’t believe I was done speaking. I would appreciate it if you would let me finish a thought before jumping in. Thank you.”

Frank bit back a grin. He could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence. Grant darted a perplexed look to Marshall, who shook his head in confusion.

“As I was saying,” Karen continued, “all three are here promoting the upcoming WBA championship, in which they will compete. Now Mr. Lee—” Karen turned sharply to Marshall, who almost flinched under her gaze. “I’ve been watching your matches recently, and am wondering if you’re at all concerned about going up against such a powerful box puncher like Michael Henton in the first championship round?”

“Well, sweetheart,” Marshall slipped into a smirk, drawing out the syllables on the pet name. “I’m not worried about anything. I’m a tough guy, y’know, I can take whatever is sent my way.” He threw in a wink, because his answer hadn’t been significantly douchey enough. “I handle myself, darlin’, don’t you worry about that.”

“Hmm, interesting.” Karen tilted her head in faux-innocence. “Very interesting answer. Because I was looking through the tapes of your match against Andre Vic a few weeks ago, and I noticed you throwing up a lot of overhand punches—a hit which requires perfect timing and a strong defensive back. And every blow Vic managed to land was due to poor timing on those overhands. Now Vic, as you know, is more of an out-boxer, so his jabs weren’t hitting you as hard as I imagine Henton’s will if you insist on tossing in those overhands.”

This time Frank couldn’t bite back his smile, and felt it split his face. Damn, but she got his number.

There was a beat of silence, in which he could practically see Marshall’s brain recalibrating. The asshole hadn’t been expecting that.

“Well, you see, I don’t think—” Marshall stuttered to reply. “You know those overhand punches pack a lot of power, and—”

“Well sure they do.” Karen cut him off. “If you can time them perfectly so as not to leave yourself exposed to a fighter with a mean cross, like Henton.”

“But, see, you—” Marshall continued to grasp for words, and Grant started laughing.

“Damn, Marshall. She got you there.” He snickered, sliding down in his seat, shoulders shaking.

Karen’s eyes swung to Grant, harshly, and Frank knew something good was coming.

“I don’t know that I’d be laughing at Mr. Lee, Mr. Hass,” she spoke, her voice sounding almost prim. “You were doing a whole of clinching in your last match with Henton, if I recall. Trying to save yourself some recovery time after all those solid hooks he landed on you.” Her eyes were ice. “Ref spent more time pulling you out of a hold than he did anything else.”

Grant’s jaw dropped, and he was instantly sitting up in his seat, stiffening defensively, eyes wide.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he balked. “Did you see that uppercut in the second round? I had him with that—he was reeling for a good three seconds after that blow.”

“Sure, yeah,” Karen conceded, dipping her head. “But the way it glanced off of him sent you off balance as well. A solid few seconds of stumbling to regain your ground, if I recall. Now that’s fine when you’re working with Henton, who isn’t the best at footwork. But if you’re going to pull that move on Jeffries in the championship, I guarantee you he’s going to be planted much more solidly into the canvas.”

Frank was snickering—he couldn’t help it. God, it was beautiful, watching Grant and Marshall caught so off-guard.

“What about Castle?!” Grant jabbed a finger in his direction. “You got anything smart to say about Castle?”

Karen’s buttery smile was back, as she turned to look at Frank. They locked eyes for a moment, and the corner of his mouth ticked upwards.

“Mr. Castle,” Karen’s voice gentled. “I noticed that, while earlier in your career you focused a lot on blocking and parrying punches, recently you’ve been defaulting to slipping in your matches. Have you been training with a greater focus on dexterity in the past few months?”

“What?!” Marshall exploded. “You’re not going to call him out on something, too?”

Karen ignored Lee’s outburst, eyes trained on Frank.

“Well,” Frank cleared his throat, leaning in toward the microphone on the table. “You got a real keen eye, Miss Page. My trainer, Curtis, has actually been focusing on getting me to play defensive for the last few matches. Tone down the power—work on reading the ring.”

“Hmm, interesting.” Karen nodded, still ignoring the slack-jawed looks from Grant and Marshall. “So moving away from the slugging style a bit? Probably a good strategy if you’re going to be fighting Spence in the future.”

“Exactly,” Frank nodded. “Especially since he’ll be the first Southpaw I’m going up against.”

“Oh, that’s right. Because you haven’t fought McClane yet, either.” Karen bobbed her head. “It’ll certainly be an interesting match, then.”

“Counting on it.” Frank leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

Foggy gave a signal which meant they had ten seconds left on their segment. Karen acknowledged him with a dip of the head.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have here. It certainly is looking like it will be an interesting championship this year. Can’t wait to cover it for you. I’m Karen Page with CBS NY sports, signing off.”

The room was silent—dead silent—with the flavor of the crypt in the air. Then all of the sudden Frank was laughing; really, truly laughing. A deep, gut-clenching kind of noise.

Grant and Marshall both shot him purely toxic looks, glaring.

“Shut the fuck up, Castle.” Grant muttered, shoving back from his chair and running a hand through his hair in a huff. “Just because she didn’t roast _your_ ass.”

Frank shook his head, still chuckling to himself. Damn it, but he really couldn’t stop. The angrier they looked, the funnier it was.

“She had a point, though, Grant. About your uppercut.” Marshall stood up as well, shrugging. “It was a risky move, and you didn’t land it right.” Grant wheeled on him in an instant.

“Oh, well don’t get me started about all those damned overhands you been throwing.” He jabbed Marshall in the chest. “You’re out there showing off like you’re some fresh fighter. You should know better.”

Karen ignored the fracas on the stage, and proceeded to gather up all of her materials quietly, a tiny smile pulling the corners of her mouth. She motioned for Foggy that it was time to make a subtle exit, and thanked her lucky stars that they were the last interviewers of the day. She didn’t want to pick up any heat for riling up the talent before the others could get to them.

Marshall and Grant continued to argue with one another, voices gaining in volume, as Karen and Foggy made to slip away quietly out the side door. Right before she disappeared into the alley way, Karen glanced over her shoulder and caught Frank’s eye. He was watching her, arms crossed, a grin on his face. And something that looked a whole lot like admiration in his eyes.

 

“Oh my god, Karen. What the hell did you do to those guys?” Jess removed the headphones from her ears, looking up from the monitor where she had been playing and replaying Karen’s WBA interview for the last ten minutes.

“Eh, nothing that they didn’t deserve.” Karen leaned back in her wheelie chair, propping her feet up on the switch board of the editing room. Jess glared at her, knocking her feet away. “I just put them in their places is all.”

“This is going to be such a pain to edit.” Jess groaned, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how to make this look good, Kare, especially for _you_.”

“Then don’t.” Karen shrugged, picking up a stress ball and tossing it from hand to hand.

“I’m sorry, what?!” Jess turned to her sharply, eyebrow raised. “Did little miss perfect-smile, always-happy, see-how-likable-I-am just say that I _don’t_ need to make her look good on TV?”

Karen bobbed her head in a nod. “Yep.”

“Jesus. I think I’m hallucinating. Or losing my mind.” Jess faux-gasped. “Or both!”

“Wouldn’t hallucinating mean you’re already losing your mind, or…?”

“Shut up! Not the point!” Jess jabbed the re-wind button on the control panel, rolling back to the beginning of the interview. “The point is—if I let this interview go, as is, it’s totally not going to play with your image. You come out of this looking like a real ballbuster. Not the chill, guy’s girl you are in all your other pieces.”

“Fine. Then that’s what it is. Let it play.” Karen’s voice was hard; adamant. And it had Jess glancing at her in confusion. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to be this—this—this _thing_ that I’m not, Jess. I _am_ a ballbuster. So fuck it.” She was beginning to work herself up. “And speaking of—why is it that a woman who demands a little respect is a ballbuster? If Anderson shut down an athlete for interrupting him during an interview, he’d be a _boss_!”

“Yeah, Karen. You discovered sexism exists. Congratulations.” Jess deadpanned. “It’s not like you didn’t know this job was ground zero for male chauvinists.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m just tired of it!” Karen stood up, filled with vim. Then, realizing she had nowhere to go, sat down again. “I’m tired of playing the game like they want me to play it. Pretending that I don’t mind being called ‘honey,’ or that jokes about a woman’s ass are funny. I’m not doing that shit anymore.”

Jess sighed. “Are you sure about this, Kare? This isn’t something you can take back. If I send this interview to air the way it is, you’re not coming out of it looking like the cool girl anymore.”

“Fuck the cool girl.” Karen spat. “Send it as it is.”

Jess eyed her for a moment, unsure. But Karen’s look brokered no argument.

“Okay.” Jess sighed, shaking her head. “Ballsy move, Page.”

“Yeah, well I’m a ballsy girl, Jones.”

 

As soon as the interview aired on the 6 o’clock news that Friday night, the reaction was explosive. Unprecedented. Sitting at home, going over her schedule for the next week, Karen’s phone had begun blowing up instantly—calls and texts from coworkers and friends, all freaking out about her WBA segment. She’d turned her phone off, not wanting to deal with the repercussions that she was certain were coming her way for just a few more days.

Almost overnight, clips of her snapping at Hass and Lee had been picked up by alternative news sources, like Buzzfeed and Jezebel. Being retweeted with titles like “Sports Reporter Destroys Boxers With Expert Opinion” and “Watch This Woman Put A Man in His Place After He Interrupts Her Interview.” She was being made into memes—screenshots of her glaring at Hass with sassy phrases written over them circulating Facebook, Reddit, and Tumblr. (A subset of boxing fans with keen eyes had started cutting together segments from the interview titled “Frank Castle Actually Smiles” and passing it around on boxing forums).

By the time she walked into work the following Monday, she was a certified internet celebrity (not that it really meant much, in a world where memes lost their potency within weeks).

“Oh my god,” Trish grabbed her arm as soon as she stepped into the newsroom, dragging her into her office and closing the door. “What the fuck, Karen? Why didn’t you warn me about the interview before hand? I had watch it on air for the first time in the middle of the broadcast. Do you know how hard it was to keep from losing my shit when they rolled that footage?”

“Sorry,” Karen shrugged, grinning, as she plopped down on the couch Trish had pushed to the side wall of her office.

“Sorry?! Come on—that was _brilliant_!” Trish threw her hands up. “Seeing you rip into those guys; it gave me life, Kare.”

“Yeah, well…” Karen sighed. “Let’s just hope it didn’t ruin my entire career in the process.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at Trish’s door.

“Uh, is Miss Page in there? Ellison is asking for her in his office?” It was the intern, sounding mousier than ever.

Trish and Karen glanced at each other.

“Oh shit.” Karen stood up slowly. “Time to face the music, I guess.”

“Good luck.” Trish grimaced, and it was not at all comforting.

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

Ellison was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled together, a grim look on his face. As soon as Karen walked in, she knew she was not going to like what he had to say.

“Sit.” He gestured at the empty chair opposite his desk. Dropping her purse on the floor, Karen lowered herself into the seat, reticent, eyes glued to Ellison. He was avoiding her gaze, frowning in the middle distance.

There was a beat of silence.

“So…” Ellison sighed, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head.

“So…” Karen repeated, biting her lip.

“That stunt you pulled with the WBA interview? Wildly unprofessional.”

Karen’s heart dropped into her stomach. She wanted to argue—to say that the way _she_ had been treated by Hass and Lee was _beyond_ unprofessional, but she didn’t. Instead, she held her tongue—bitterly.

“I’m sorry, I—”

Ellison cut her off with a raised hand, and Karen decided that she needed to keep a tally of how many times she found herself interrupted by men in a day.

“You know that if you personally burn bridges with any of the athletes you are sent to interview, it is as good as burning those bridges for the entire network.” He was in lecture mode. “Which is why the number one rule we have is to _cater to the talent_ , Karen. You don’t have Trish Walker’s job, where you’re there to bully and prod and ask the hard-hitting questions. You are a _sports_ reporter—you’re there to get sound bites and give the athletes a warm, happy feeling every time they hear the name CBS NY.”

Karen’s fingers flexed on her lap, and it took an inhuman amount of strength to keep them from balling into fists.

“Now, I want you to know that I was ready to fire you on the spot the moment that clip played last Friday.”

 _Fuck_. Karen’s heart picked up a stuttering beat in her chest. This was not sounding good—not at all.

“ _But_ , luckily for you, one of the producers stepped in and said that I couldn’t.” His voice was just slightly hostile. “Apparently, your little interview tripled the number of hits our website has had over the past few days. God help me, but people really liked it.”

She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“Again, I want to reiterate that, had it been my choice, you would be clearing out your desk. I do not appreciate my reporters going rogue behind my back.” The look he leveled her way was severe. “But ultimately it’s not up to me. And the fact that your interview went viral is the only thing saving your hide. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.” She dipped her head in acknowledgement.

“Good. Now get out of my office. You’ve got a new assignment on your desk.”


	2. Making Progress AKA "He's a Friend From Work"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!!! So this entire fic spans about 6 years, so this is a time-skip heavy chapter. Bear with me folks, I promise I have a plan.
> 
> Also the Gopher Gang was a real gang in pre-Prohibition Hells' Kitchen. You can't make this shit up.

Things changed for Karen after the Hass-Lee Interview; not considerably, and not all at once. But enough for her to feel some kind of difference. A new breeze blowing in the air.

The biggest change, of course, was the fact that the interview had killed her Cool Girl image with one clean stroke. There was absolutely no way to recover from what she’d done—not that she wanted to. In fact, Karen had gone home that Monday evening, gathered up all of her “Cool Girl” memorabilia (tight t-shirts with sports logos on the front; baseball caps that never quite fit the shape of her head; push-up bras that seemed to chip away at the very fabric of her soul each time she put one on), went up to the roof, and burned them. Lighter fluid in an empty trash can; match on the stack. Burned them all. (And then later received a rather unfriendly letter from her landlord that she was never to do it again).

She started dressing how _she_ wanted; acting how _she_ wanted. Skirt suits, black heels, and a professional updo. Clicking down the concrete hallways of whichever stadium or arena her assignments took her with cut-a-bitch confidence. Damn what anyone else had to say about her—she would let her knowledge and talent speak for itself.

Her WBA interview also afforded her a new kind of status: she was a woman to be taken seriously. A woman not afraid to put someone in their place. Athletes actually began speaking to her—gave her good material—partially out of the fear that they would end up embarrassed, their faces splashed across the news as the new Hass or Lee.

Elliot started assigning her to high-interest events. More football and basketball and prime time games (things people actually watched), and less golf and cross country and fluffy, little human interest pieces. Which was amazing for Karen, but a little tiring for Foggy, who never felt all that confident standing next to a 6’7” linebacker.

Of course, despite her uptick in status, Karen was still the outsider in a boy’s club. No amount of retooling or scrubbing down of her reputation could change that. At the end of the day, Cool Girl or Ballbuster, Karen was still a _woman_. Long legs and blonde hair and wide, blue eyes. And she may have earned some modicum of respect, especially among the athletes, but that didn’t mean that she’d solved sexism. Not by a long shot. They still found ways—the stadium managers in charge of the press schedules and her fellow reporters—to keep her down. To let her know that she wasn’t shit in their eyes.

 

“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Karen stared down at the press lineup in her hands. “This is a joke. A fucking joke.” She slid down the wall, her ass hitting the ground with a jolting thud, and let her head fall into her hands.

“What? What’s it say?” Foggy reached out to snatch the paper from her limp fingers, curious.

“They have us last—dead fucking last in the schedule.” Karen’s voice was all vitriol. “Even the crappy local stations are going before us.”

“Are you sure?” Foggy unfolded the lineup to read it for himself.

 “Yes, I’m sure. I know how to read a schedule, Fog.” Karen snapped, then immediately felt sorry for it. None of this was Foggy’s fault. He’d only ever been supportive and sympathetic. “You know, this is about _me_ —I know it is. No intelligent manager would put the fucking,” she gestured at the paper, “college broadcasting channel before CBS NY.”

“Fuck.” Foggy frowned, eyes scanning the paper. “What a bunch of assholes.”

They were currently sitting outside the press room of Bay Ridge Stadium—the first ones to arrive, as always, for the start of the afternoon’s interviews. It was the beginning of Oktber Fight Fest, Karen’s favorite boxing event (because sometimes the fighters entered the ring wearing costumes, which she thought was just a little bit adorable), and she was thrilled to be covering it. It had been seven months since she had been assigned to a boxing event—her last one being the infamous WBA interview. Ellison had thought it was a good idea to keep her off of the beat for a while, away from the boxing world, just to let things die down a bit. (Though a small part of her suspected he was withholding boxing assignments as a sort of punishment for what she had done, ripping Hass and Grant new assholes).

And finally—finally—after being given the boxing beat once again, she was billed at the very bottom of the schedule. The last one to come through. Which was terrible for a number of reasons. The way the interviews were set up followed a very specific format. The press room was organized into a line of tables, with a boxer sitting at each one; a little like speed dating, an interviewer would sit with one fighter—ask their questions for five minutes—then a bell would ding, telling them to move on. And the next interviewer would take their place.

So being last meant Karen would likely find herself re-treading questions that the boxers had already answered several times during the course of the afternoon—they would be bored and tired. And much less willing to give her something good, because they’d been talking all day.

It also meant that everyone would know her place in the pecking order. Being last in the schedule, any reporter worth her salt knew, meant you weren’t shit. Meant the event organizers didn’t care for you at all. You were poison. Karen might as well have walked around wearing a sandwich board that read “I Am A Pariah; Nobody Talk To Me.”

“God damnit, Fog.” Karen ran a hand through her hair, frustrated. “When is this shit going to stop? Is there ever going to be a point in my career where I get treated like an equal, or should I just expect this the rest of my life?”

“Do you want the honest answer or the lie, Kare?”

“The lie, please.”

“Good choice.” Foggy nodded, then took a breath. When he spoke again, it was with unbelievably false cheer. “I think you’re on the up-and-up! It can only get better from here. I’m no psychic, but I can feel it in my bones—the tides are changing for you! Things are going to work out just fine!”

Karen snorted, glancing up at him with a decent attempt at a smile. “That wasn’t half bad. If I were more gullible, I would actually be feeling better.”

“I try.” Fog shrugged, looking self-satisfied.

There was a moment of silence, in which Karen let her head fall back against the wall, closing her eyes. All she needed to do was breathe—ten deep breaths and she could handle anything.

“Hey,” Foggy interrupted her after breath three. “As long as we’re waiting here, I’m gonna get a hot dog from concessions. Want anything?”

Karen shook her head, refusing to open her eyes, and heard Foggy’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

“You can do this. You are going to keep it together. You’re not going to be bitter about this shit.” She mumbled to herself, only half-believing her own words. “It’s going to be a good day.”

As if on cue, her phone beeped, alerting her to an incoming text. Her eyes snapped open, and she glanced at the screen.

 _Paxton Page_ , the notification read. Karen groaned, her heart sinking into her stomach as her thumb hovered over the swipe bar. There was a back-and-forth in her mind—an old, long-standing battle that she went through every time she saw her father’s name flash across her phone. There was the very large, very vicious part of her that never wanted to speak to him again. That told her to cut off all contact and hope that he disappeared from her life completely. It was the part of her that screamed; that raged; that tore up the neat little spaces in her mind that bore his name, uncaring.

But there was a second part of her—a smaller part—that was kinder. That reminded her she was her father’s only living family; that he was a 75 year-old man who sat around all day in his underwear watching T.V. That he was probably lonely. It was a part of her that spoke in a whisper, quiet and soft. But somehow, defying all odds, it was the part of her that always won out.

With a heavy sigh, Karen swiped open his message.

_Karen. Call me. You never call me. Saw your interview with the Yankees. Did you have to wear so much makeup? You looked like a prostitute._

“Jesus.” She regretted it the moment she finished reading. It was so like her dad, to be judgmental and crude. And throwing in that dash of guilt about never calling him? Classic. Karen snorted to herself—the things she could guilt him about if she thought it would change anything.

“Hey.”

Her head whipped up instantly at the sound of that voice. Familiar, but not in the way the voice of a friend is. Rather, in the way a voice you think about a lot is.

Standing above her, hands shoved in his pockets, gym bag slung over one shoulder, was Frank Castle. Looking damn good in dark wash jeans and a gray Henley that stretched over his broad chest like its fucking job was to show off those ridiculous pecs.

“Uh, hi, hey.” Karen scrambled to stand up, wobbling slightly on her heels. Frank reached out as though to steady her, but let his arm drop to his side when she planted a hand against the wall.

Regaining her balance, Karen shot Frank a considering look, and wondered if she needed to introduce herself to him again. It had been seven months since they’d last seen each other, after all. _She_ knew that the day of their interview had changed the course of her life—had been branded into her mind forever—but chances were, he barely recalled who she was. In the time between their last encounter and this one, his fame had only grown. His reputation as the one to beat in any match had him soaring up the WBA ranks. She was sure that his life was an endless stream of reporters, so the likelihood that he would remember _her_ , of all people, was pretty slim.

“Karen Page. CBS NY, right?”

Oh. _Oh_. He _did_ remember her. The thought caused something warm to bloom in Karen’s chest.

(Of course he did; the interview she’d done with Hass and Lee had made his entire year. In fact, over the past few months, Frank had made a special effort to follow all of her interviews and reports any time he flicked on the news.)

“Yeah. Good to see you, Mr. Castle.” She bobbed her head.

“Frank.” He corrected.

“Frank.”

He let his eyes quickly dart down her figure, and fought a little grin. She looked good—different. No longer wearing the designer sneakers and WBA t-shirt; instead opting for a maroon pantsuit and heels made for walking all over a man. It was a look she wore well.

“You, uh…you waiting for the interviews to start?” He glanced down at his watch, frowning. The woman was well over an hour early. “Might’ve jumped the gun, huh?”

“Yeah, I know. I like to be the first one here.” She sighed. “All the good it’s going to do me _now,_ though.” Her voice was flavored with just the slightest sarcasm—a touch of acrimony. Frank’s brow furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

Karen stared at him for a moment, debating. As a rule, she generally didn’t like to air out behind-the-scenes dirty laundry to the athletes. Most reporters tended to draw a very thick, very impermeable line between what went on behind the camera and in front of it. It kept things clean—easy.

But on the other hand, Frank was looking at her with those soulful brown eyes, like he actually cared about what she had to say. And she sure was dying to say something.

“Just, uh…” Karen shrugged, aiming for nonchalant, but missing the mark by a large margin. “They put me dead last on the schedule today.”

“What?” Frank frowned, confused. “You still working CBS NY, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why…?” He’d been in the game long enough to know the drill at these kinds of events: big, national networks get first dibs on interviews, trickling down to local stations, then online platforms, then student-led networks (like NYU Campus Cable). CBS NY was a local branch of a national network—when Anderson Fray was sent to cover boxing events, they always had him either first or second in the lineup. Putting Karen in dead last was breaking protocol, and rather dramatically at that.

“Well, if I had to guess,” Karen answered his unfinished question, “I’d say it’s because of that pesky X chromosome of mine.” She chuckled, and it was a bitter sound. Her hands flexed at her sides—Frank’s eyes darted to the movement; it was one he recognized. A person trying desperately to tamp down on their instinct to ball up fists.

“They still, uh,” he shook his head. “Still treatin’ you like shit, huh?”

“Afraid they won’t ever stop.” Karen smiled a sour little smile. “Price you pay for being a woman in this field.”

Frank wanted to say something—he really did. About how fucked up the situation was. But he didn’t know what. And he was saved from stumbling through some kind of awkward, sympathetic statement by the sound of shoes slapping heavy down the hallway.

“Man! This place has way better hot dogs than Barclays does! I’m telling you—like a world of difference.” Foggy’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of bratwurst and bun.

He drew up short, eyes wide, as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Karen standing across from Frank Castle. They both seemed to tense in the slightest at his entrance, and he got the vague impression that he’d interrupted something.

“I—oh. Hey.” Foggy swallowed, gesturing with the soda in his hand.

“Hey.” Frank jerked his chin in acknowledgement. It was quiet for a moment, and then he turned back to Karen. “Uh. Gonna head to the locker room. Good luck today.”

“Uh yeah. Thanks. You too.” She smiled, and Foggy thought they maintained eye contact for just a hair too long, before Frank turned and walked away.

“So…” Foggy raised his eyebrows as soon as Frank was out of earshot, a smarmy grin on his face. “What was that about?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Karen waved him off with a dismissive shake of the head. “Just said hello. Asked me how things were going. Y’know.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Foggy took a long, improbably loud slurp of his drink. “Whatever you say.”

 

The press event was a disaster. _Frank Castle_ was a disaster. There was not a single reporter (save for one) at Oktober Fight Fest that day who didn’t want to strangle him where he sat. Cocky, smug, with his arms crossed over his chest. Lips completely sealed.

Castle was the _one_ fighter everybody wanted to talk to—wanted to get that golden sound bite from. Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew it: Castle was the only interview that really mattered. All of the other boxers, they were great, but _The Punisher_ was the real reason that so many reporters had shown up to the Bay Ridge Stadium that day. Viewers would be tuning in to hear what _he_ had to say—to see the rising star of the WBA answering questions and smiling for the camera (not that he _ever_ smiled for the camera, if he could help it).

So it was devastation when the first interviewer of the afternoon, Brad Whittington (all blinding-white teeth and news anchor hair), sat down in front of Frank, asked his first question...and Castle gave him nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Only “yes” or “no” answers, refusing to expand upon anything he was asked. Just sitting there, arms crossed, with a defiant look on his face. There had been some nervous twittering as everyone watched Brad scramble with his notes the moment it became clear that Castle wasn’t offering up much more than monosyllables. He had shot a nervous glance to his camera man, who had shrugged, baffled. Nothing like this had ever happened before—interviews never went south for Brad Whittington.

Then the second interviewer stepped up. Everyone watched with baited breath…and it was the same thing. Castle, with that cheeky look in his eye, answering “yes” and “no” to everything—even questions where yes/no didn’t make any sense.

Then the third interviewer, and the fourth, and the fifth, and so on. Every single person who sat in that chair got the same stony-faced routine. No matter what they asked; no matter how they framed their questions. Frank Castle was not playing ball.

Chaos. It was pure chaos behind the scenes, as the gathered reporters raged against Castle for pulling the silent treatment on them. For ruining their one shot at getting a decent sound bite out of him before going to air. Yeah, the guy was a notoriously-difficult interview, but this was next level. This was just plain ridiculous. As they all pulled out their cellphones, calling their respective news directors to explain why they would have to air an interview with a lesser-known boxer, the atmosphere in the press room grew tense.

Until five hours later, when finally— _finally_ —it was Karen Page’s turn at bat. All day she’d been hearing about Frank’s little stunt, and she was a more than a bit nervous. Sure, she and Frank seemed to have established some kind of rapport, but if he was intent on tanking the day’s interviews, the chances of him playing nice with her were pretty damn slim. She didn’t know what kind of statement he was trying to make, but she wasn’t banking on getting anything good out of her five minutes.

She took her seat across from him, offering up a nervous smile while Foggy prepped the camera for the perfect angle.

“Interesting day, Castle.” She murmured under her breath, reaching down to adjust the mic at her chest.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Frank’s smirk was just a touch smug.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Karen glanced at Foggy, who was giving her the go-ahead signal. “Ready?” She nodded at Frank.

“Yes ma’am.” He bobbed his head back.

She paused—took a deep breath. If Frank was going to sink her interview, too, she’d just have to accept it and move on.

“So, Mr. Castle—” she began, but was cut off.

“Frank.” He corrected with a quirk of the brow.

“Frank.” Moment’s pause. “You’ve just come off a victory against Allen Marx, who has often been cited as your biggest competition in the WBA circuit. Do you feel like you’ve reached a point where any opponent you face after him will be a bit of a letdown?”

There were a handful of seconds in which nobody seemed to breathe—waiting to see if Castle would shut the interview down as he had with the others.

“You know, I’m glad you asked that, Miss Page. Good question.” Frank leaned forward, hands folded on the table. There was a murmur of surprise that went up through the crowd of reporters gathered around them. “Each of my opponents has presented a different challenge for me to face. Marx has some stellar footwork, but he lacks the power of, say, Henton. Or the versatility of Jeffries. So while beating him was a huge victory, I don’t think I’m done being challenged by my fellow boxers.”

Karen’s grin was impossible to keep down. He was looking at her with a conspiratory little spark behind his eyes, the corners of his lips quirking up. She shook her head, biting back a chuckle, and reached for her second question.

That man. He was like her guardian fucking angel.

 

That week, CBS NY was the only news station to air an interview with Frank Castle. They were the only station with enough usable audio to piece one together. And it was all because of Frank.

It was a watershed moment—a turning point that let everyone know not to fuck with Karen Page. Because she (somehow, though nobody knew quite how) had Frank Castle in her corner. All it took was that one demonstration—that one shot across the bow from Frank—and people got the picture. Understood the lay of the land: don’t try to pull any sexist bullshit around The Punisher, because he wasn’t going to take it.

Because of him, Karen’s placement shot way up in the pecking order, until CBS NY was back to the number one spot during scheduling. Ellison had been so impressed with her work that he stopped withholding boxing assignments from her, and instead gave her almost complete coverage of WBA and USA Boxing events, switching Anderson Fray to the golf circuit (a shift in position that he did _not_ take well). And everyone learned, very quickly, that if you wanted to get anything good out of Frank Castle, you sent in Karen Page. As soon as she showed up at the press room, people made way.

Karen couldn’t have guessed exactly what it was that had won Frank over to her corner so easily, and she never felt comfortable enough to ask. But Foggy had a few theories.

 First, there was the idea that everyone loves a good underdog—everyone loves to root for the little guy getting kicked around. And in the world of New York sports reporting, Karen and Foggy were the definitive underdogs. Maybe Frank had found their plight compelling, the way everyone ends up cheering for Rudy at the end of the movie. Karen could see the logic behind this theory, but hoped it wasn’t true—she didn’t need anyone’s pity.

Second, there was the fact that Castle’s hatred of the press was the boxing world’s worst-kept secret. In fact, it wasn’t even a secret at all. During the early days of his career, he’d made a big splash by calling an established reporter for NBC a “$2 haircut with a fake smile and no real thoughts in his head.” Frank Castle was an enemy of the press. Karen Page, it seemed, found herself in the same position—constantly attacked and cut down by the same $2 haircuts Frank himself despised. And an enemy of an enemy is a friend. This theory, Karen agreed with Foggy, was probably the most compelling.

The third theory, and Karen’s least favorite, was that Frank took pity on her because she was a woman. That he had some kind of paternal, protective instinct to stick up for her solely based on her gender. Again, Karen despised this theory, as it was patronizing and debasing.

(The theory Foggy _hadn’t_ considered was that Frank recognized something in Karen—something that sparked off a feeling of kindship deep inside of him. He saw fire. The kind of bright and burning thing that lives deep in the pit of a person’s stomach—forcing them to get up back up over and over again, every time they’re knocked down, and keep fighting. She had it in spades; so did Frank. And like calls to like. It always has, and it always will.)

But whatever the reason for Frank’s obvious favoritism, Foggy wasn’t going to question it. Because it made his job a hell of a lot easier. Month after month, without fail, he and Karen turned out the highest viewership numbers at the station, all because of their segments with Castle.

Of course there were rumors that popped up every now and then—the sexist kind that imply a woman in a position of power must have gotten to that point by trading sexual favors. Rumors about Frank and Karen’s relationship, and just how _personal_ it was. Sly little winks and nudges exchanged by her competitors whenever she sat down across from Frank; whispers about illicit meetings in the locker room.

All of which could not have been further from the truth, as everything between the two of them was strictly professional. Karen wouldn’t even say that she and Frank were _friends,_ necessarily. They were _friendly_ , sure—made small-talk whenever they saw each other, traded boxing gossip, complained about other reporters. But they didn’t get drinks after interviews or hang out on the regular; they never exchanged phone numbers or asked about each other’s personal lives. Truthfully, they only saw each other a few times a month, when sitting down for interviews; theirs was very much a working relationship.

In fact, the first time Karen even saw Frank Castle outside of an interviewing situation was almost a year after Oktober Fight Fest, in September of 2013. At the Parade of Champions Tournament, held at the old Bronx Velodrome.

 

“Oh my _god_ , that was amazing. The way that guy just—” Jess swung her arm wide in a poor imitation of a right hook, and the beer in her hand sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “And then he just—” Her other arm went flying in an uppercut.

“Woah, girl.” Karen laughed, dodging Jess’s blows as they filtered into the lobby of the Velodrome, getting caught up in the crowd leaving the fight. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Nah. I’m gonna hurt someone _else_.” Jess shook her head. “Man, I’m so pumped. Why didn’t you invite me to any boxing stuff earlier? I can totally get into this!”

“Uh, honestly, because I was a little afraid of _how_ into it you’d get.” Karen clutched her purse to her front as she bounced back and forth, jostled on either side by the inebriated crowd. “The last thing I need is you getting _more_ violent than you already are.”

“Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am totally diplomatic and nonaggressive all the time.”

“Uh huh. Which is why you were repeatedly banging your very expensive headset against the soundboard yesterday when I walked into the cutting room, yelling ‘feedback is a bitch and I’m gonna kick its fucking ass’.”

“That was one time, Page. One fucking time.” Jess held up a finger.

“Okay, sure. But what about the time you made the intern cry because you wouldn’t stop throwing pencils at him every time he bumped your equipment.”

“They were unsharpened!”

“Still violent, Jess.” Karen shook her head. She looked around—the crowd was so packed, they were barely moving forward at all. At this rate, she’d make it to the parking lot by midnight.

“Whatever. The fact remains—you should have introduced me to boxing way before this. It’s like the sport I was meant to discover.” Jess stood on her tip toes to look above the crowd. “Holy. Shit.” She smacked Karen in the arm, a little too roughly. “I think I see Sammy ‘The Destroyer’ Dickson over there, signing autographs!”

“Probably. He’s always staying after to ham it up with the fans at these events.” Karen rubbed her arm, which was growing sore from Jess’s pounding.

“Oh man—I gotta get an autograph from him. Can we go? Please?” Jess fell back on the flats of her feet, sending Karen a pleading look.

“Uh… _you_ can go. I’ve already met The Destroyer, and honestly, not a fan. He probably wouldn’t be too glad to see me.” Karen shook her head. She may have referred to him as a trial horse in some voiceover commentary for one of his matches—an insult he was surely not over yet.

“Yeah, well he hasn’t met _me_. I’m gonna go get him to sign my shirt.” Jess reached out to grab a hold of Karen’s purse. “You got a Sharpie in there?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Karen dug around a bit, pulling out a marker, which Jess snatched up excitedly.

“Alright—you’re the best. If I don’t see you later, get back safe!” She yelled before disappearing into the crowd, swallowed up by the mass of bodies.

“Oh boy. I’m gonna regret bringing her here, I can just feel it.” Karen went to zip up her bag, then paused. It felt a little lighter than usual—a little less bulky. She held it up, frowning. Rifling around, pushing aside a box of Band-Aids and a spray can of Mace, her brow furrowed. Where was her planner? She unzipped every pocket, ran her hand along the bottom of each compartment, but it wasn’t there. Her little, black Moleskin with her schedule meticulously color-coded and organized.

“Fuck.” It hit her—she’d probably left it in the locker room. She and Foggy had shown up at the Velodrome a few hours before any of the events to catch an interview or two with some of the fighters—and she’d probably put it on a bench somewhere and forgotten about it. “God fucking damnit. Fuck me.” At the rate the crowd was moving, ie. extremely slowly, she’d never make it to the lockers before the building closed for the night. “Just my fucking luck.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good night.”

The low, rumbling voice behind her had Karen whipping around quickly—surprised.

“Frank! Holy shit, what are you doing here?”

It was strange to see Frank Castle dressed in civilian clothes, just blending into the crowd—black leather jacket, baseball cap pulled low over his face. Obviously trying to keep a low profile. He was standing close enough in the press of bodies that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and dark. Not his usual scent of sweat, chalk, and locker room. It was nice (though the latter was nice as well, if Karen was being honest).

“Just checking out some of the amateurs.” He shrugged. “Like to see the upcoming talent on my nights off.”

“Makes sense.” Karen bobbed her head. “Anyone who looked promising?”

“We on the record?”

“Course not. I’m not a reporter right now—just a curious civilian.”

“Well, that Kilkenny kid had a mean left hook. He might be something in a few years.”

“I thought so too.” Karen grinned. “Reminded me a bit of you in your early days—all power; relentless. A real mauler.”

“Yeah? You watched my early fights?”

“Of course I did. I’m not some casual fan here, Castle. I’ve been here since day one.” Karen pressed an adamant hand to her chest.

“Good to know.” Frank grinned. “So, uh…you okay? You were cussing up a storm earlier.”

“Oh, yeah.” Karen seemed to remember that she had been upset only moments ago. She grabbed at her purse, holding it open. “I seem to have left my planner in the locker room earlier. Don’t think I’ll be able to get to it tonight with the crowd moving like this.”

“Hmm.” Frank ran a hand across his jaw, scratching at his short-trimmed beard. He squinted at her, as though in thought. “How important this planner to you?”

“Uh, I mean.” Karen tilted her head back and forth, lips pursed. “Would I _kill_ someone for it? Probably not.”

“Probably?” Frank raised a brow.

“Well, you never know until you’re in the moment, now do you?” Karen bit back a smile.

“You’re a terrifying woman, Page.”

“That’s usually what I’m aiming for.”

Frank glanced around the crowd again, sighing at the gridlock. “I might know a way to get you there a little faster.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just…it’s kind of a secret shortcut. Fighters and family only. Don’t want a lot of reporters finding out about it. Taking advantage.” He continued to size her up. Karen pursed her lips.

“And you’re not sure you can trust me?” She put her hands on her hips.

“You _are_ a reporter.”

“But who am I gonna tell? You see the way those other guys treat me. They wouldn’t listen to me if I got on top of this building with a megaphone and started screaming about a secret passageway.”

“True.” Frank raised a brow, considering. “Okay. Follow me.”

He turned on his heel, and Karen had to hustle to keep up with the way he was zig-zagging through the crowd. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to maintain eyes on that broad, strong back as he shouldered his way between stumbling bodies. That is, until a man bumped into her, stepping on her toes with a not inconsiderable amount of force. Karen doubled over for a moment, hopping up and down in pain, cursing under her breath. When she looked up, she’d lost Frank to the masses.

“Motherfucker.” She turned in a circle, on her tiptoes, before spotting him again. He was off to the side, leaning against the concession bar and watching her with an amused look on his face. She made her way toward him.

“God, it’s like fighting through a tidal wave to get out of that crowd,” she huffed, running a hand through her hair. “Where to now?”

“Here,” he jerked his head toward an unmarked door. “We’re going in there.”

“Seems sketchy.” It was windowless and grimy, paint peeling around the edges.

“Well, it _is_ a secret passageway,” Frank tossed over his shoulder as he yanked the door open by a rusty handle, which let out a heinous creaking noise. Karen wondered if anyone on maintenance had ever heard of WD-40. “I think sketchiness is part of the deal.”

“True.” Karen turned to look at the crowd one last time before following him.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust—they were standing in a very dimly-lit hallway, walls rather close on either side. It reminded her, strangely, of something out of _Phantom of the Opera._

“What is this place?” She reached out a hand to touch the wall, half expecting it to come away sticky, but pleasantly surprised when it didn’t.

“The people who work concessions use these hallways so they can get anywhere in the stadium without fighting through the crowd. Means they spill less.” Frank’s voice, deep and low, reverberated in the closed space as he began walking. Karen followed. Pale yellow lights flickered overhead, and a chill ran down her spine.

“But does it have to look so _creepy_? I’m getting some real murder-y vibes down here.” Karen muttered, breathing in musty air.

“What? Don’t trust me to fight off any murderers?” Frank looked over his shoulder at her, a smile quirking his lips.

“Awful bold of you to assume I’m not imagining _you_ as the murderer in this situation.”

Frank chuckled, leading her through a series of turns. Karen tried to keep a map of where they were headed in her mind.

“So, uh,” she side-stepped a puddle of what she truly hoped was spilled soda, “how’d _you_ find out about the tunnels?”

“I’ve used ‘em for years. Usually to lure nice, naïve reporters down here and murder ‘em.” He said it so deadpan, it took a while for Karen to react, until suddenly she was laughing loudly in the reverberating hallway.

“I knew it!” She threw her hands up.

Frank just grinned as he continued to lead her down the pathway—he liked the sound of Karen’s laugh. It was full and unapologetic. The kind of laugh that shakes the body with its joy. And he was pretty damn proud that _he’d_ been the one to pull it out of her. When her laughter died down, she turned to him again, humor still coloring her face. “But really, though, how _did_ you find out about this place?

“Uh,” Frank shot her a glance. “We still off the record?”

“If you keep asking me that, we’re gonna have a bad time.” Karen rolled her eyes playfully. “Of course we’re off the record.”

“Just checking.” Frank shrugged. He paused, debating. As a rule, he didn’t share any details of his personal life with those outside of his inner circle. But there was something about Karen that set him at ease—something that told him he could trust her. In the year or so that he’d known her, she’d been nothing but kind and considerate to him. So he took a chance. “Well…my son, Frankie, when he was little he hated loud noises. Didn’t like crowds. My ex-wife used to take him to see me in the locker room using these hallways to avoid all the people. Pretty much every stadium’s got ‘em.”

Karen was just a little speechless. In all the time that she’d known Frank—as casually as she did—he’d never once mentioned anything about his personal life. His family; his childhood; what he did on the weekends. Nothing. He was notoriously guarded about that kind of thing. Especially around reporters.

So to hear him so nonchalantly throw out the fact that he had a kid—and an ex-wife—was a little weird. Karen didn’t quite know how to react.

So she changed the subject.

“You know, my brother was always convinced that there were secret little tunnels under these stadiums. But I just thought he was being a conspiracy theorist.”

“This network extends basically through the whole building. Makes it easier for everyone who works here to get around. Kind of like the catacombs of the Coliseum” He led her down a claustrophobic little staircase. “Your brother live nearby? You could take him through here someday.”

“Uh, no.” Karen shook her head, breath catching in just the slightest. “He’s actually—uh—he’s no longer with us.”

Frank stopped, and Karen almost slammed into him, pulling back suddenly to avoid collision. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“I’m sorry—I,” he grimaced slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—” Karen waved a dismissive hand. “Happened a long time ago. I’m, uh—it’s okay.”

“Still.” Frank tilted his head in the slightest, eyes just a touch softer. “Still.” He repeated. And she got what he was saying—she understood. Time doesn’t have a whole lot of power over grief. Doesn’t have nearly as tight a stranglehold on the mind.

“Thanks.” She whispered. And Frank nodded, resuming their descent down the stairs. The atmosphere was a little heavy, and Karen felt the need to change it.

“You know, I actually grew up watching boxing with my brother. And my dad. It was like my whole childhood.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My father was an amateur fighter when he was in college. Was super into the sport.” They took another sharp turn, and Karen had stopped trying to envision where they were in the stadium in her mind’s eye. She was completely lost. “Though actually…my brother and I were even more into wrestling. Like WWE and Lucha Libre. My dad hated it, though; said it was the poor man’s boxing.”

“You’re kidding.” Frank’s voice took on a shade of amusement. “Wrestling?”

“Oh yeah. We had this little black and white TV in the attic that got, like, four channels. But one of them had this staticky broadcast of Lucha Libre. Which was so weird, because I grew up in Vermont, and I’m pretty sure that stuff’s only popular in the South.” As she spoke, she could conjure up the memories as vividly as though they had happened yesterday. “Anyway, my brother and I used to wait until our dad was asleep, and we’d sneak upstairs and lay on our stomachs all night watching the luchadores. Or we’d tie blankets around our necks like capes and pretend to be Chavo Guerrero or Red Shoes Dugan.”

Frank chuckled, imagining a young Karen Page running around the house like a WWE Superstar. “You ever learn any of the moves?”

“Oh, like throwing a metal chair at your opponent?” Karen laughed. “Or this little guy here…” She bent her elbow, double-tapping it with her other hand, then jumped up, pretending to slam it down on someone’s face.

Frank’s chuckle turned into a belly laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Have you ever watched WWE? The whole _thing_ is ridiculous!” Karen grinned. “But we loved it. Each wrestler had their own backstory, and every match was a grudge match. Good versus evil. The heel and the face. It was all about law and order—about the right man winning; goodness overcoming all the terrible things the heel stood for.” Karen lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “How can you not love that? Especially as a kid, when you need a little justice in your life.”

Frank made a small, considering noise, eyeing Karen with appreciation; he liked hearing her talk. And he could understand what she was getting at—the appeal of some epic battle between right and wrong being played out by men in masks. There was something a little Greek about it; a little Sophocles.

Remembering something, Karen snickered to herself, and Frank shot her a curious look. “I was just thinking,” she explained, “about this time when we were in high school—when my brother was a senior—and we found out that this WWE fan club two towns over was hosting this big steel cage free-for-all; amateurs only. One night. I spent weeks helping my brother make a costume, just like the ones the luchadores wore. We snuck out, borrowed our dad’s car, and drove two hours just so Kevin could get his ass kicked in the first ten minutes.”

Frank laughed. “Poor guy.”

“He took it on the chin like a champ. I think he was just excited he got to set foot in the cage.”

As they rounded the final corner that deposited them in front of the locker room, Frank watched Karen from the corner of his eye, considering. She was interesting case—intriguing—different from every reporter he’d ever known. And he’d known a few. She was easy to talk to, and not in the way that made him feel like she was just trying to pull information out of him. But rather in the way people who are genuinely interested in others tend to have. It felt nice. He didn’t often relax around other people—or feel at ease—but Karen was something different. When she turned those wide, blue eyes on him, everything between them felt effortless.

He held the door open for her to walk past, and she scanned the room before spotting what she had come for.

“Ah-hah!” She held up her moleskin planner triumphantly. “Knew it was in here!” She began flipping through it, just to double-check that everything was in the right place. When she looked up again, her grin was warm. “Thanks, Frank. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yes ma’am.” He dipped his head graciously.

“Karen.” She corrected.

“Karen.”

 

And that was how Karen Page learned about the secret back hallways of every stadium and arena in New York City. All it took was a quick trip down to the library, pulling the blueprints of each major construction, and a little bit of detective work. And suddenly, Karen Page and Foggy Nelson were somehow—almost mystically—the first ones on the scene at every assignment handed their way, showing up outside the lockers to get a sound bite while other reporters were still waiting in the press room.

Foggy didn’t ask how Karen had uncovered the secret pathways—honestly, he didn’t want to know. He just followed her down whatever dark, twisting hallway she took him, glad to be away from the crowds.

But Frank knew—he knew _exactly_ where she’d learned that little trick from. And every time she popped up randomly from behind some unmarked door or tiny, side hallway, he couldn’t help but grin. You gave that woman and inch and she would take a mile. He liked that about her.

As her stock as a sports reporter began to soar, Frank’s as a boxer rose, too.

A few months after his run-in with Karen at the Parade of Champions Tournament, his name was officially listed as the number one pound-for-pound boxer by the WBA. Articles started coming out, almost overnight, touting him as the most exciting and versatile fighter USA Boxing had seen in decades. There were comparisons to Joe Lewis and Sugar Ray, all very flattering, which Frank waved off any time they were brought up. The normally contentious and combative boxing forums were in agreement that, this time, the WBA had it right. There was no doubt that Frank “The Punisher” Castle was a killer in the ring.

And from there, things were kind of a whirlwind. It was an absolutely insane year for Frank. His manager, David Lieberman, was having a tough time handling all of the promotions and obligations that came flooding in immediately after the rankings had been announced.

When you reached a certain level of fame in any sport, it turned out, publicity became a greater part of the job. Even greater than the training and competing itself. Which was not particularly pleasing to Frank, who just wanted to box and ignore all the cameras and the questions. And the more time he was forced to dedicate to the show business side of it all, the less time he had to spend with his family.

Maria and the kids had moved out to the suburbs in Scarsdale a few years prior, hoping to take advantage of the superior school systems. As it was, Frank only really got the kids on weekends and holidays—though he did manage to pop in for dinner or bed time a few nights a week, if he was lucky. But with all of the craziness that came along with his ascent through the rankings, those mid-week check-ins were getting to be less frequent.

 In fact, being put up on a pedestal in the boxing world was starting to make him feel a little bit isolated. He used to be able to pop into Hoyle’s Gym whenever the mood struck him, just to get a little training in with the local guys. But now, people seemed to actually recognize him when he left the house, which meant he didn’t get out to the old neighborhood nearly as often as he had before.

But he still saw Karen.

In fact, he felt like he saw her all the time. Since she had officially taken over all of the boxing coverage for CBS NY, she was everywhere. At every event—every tournament and even every walkout bout. Always there, microphone in hand; fighting her way through the crowd of misogynistic assholes she was forced to call colleagues, just to get her moment.

That woman was a force to be reckoned with; all bite and grit and take-no-shit attitude. So different from the person she had been when they had first met, almost three years ago. Frank was pretty damn proud to call her a friend.

And while the rumors that Frank and Karen had something going on their personal lives began to die down—as all rumors with no basis in reality tend to—their connection only grew stronger. Everyone who observed the two of them working together could see it; in the way that Karen was able to pull conversation out of Frank with so little effort, in the way that Frank could always tell the kind of day Karen was having with one look, and in the atmosphere of complete comfort that seemed to permeate the air around them. It was kind of inexplicable—this _thing_ between them. They just seemed to understand each other on a basic level; to feel a true sense of fellowship. There was something about Frank that made Karen feel more confident in herself, and something about Karen that set Frank at ease. Which made for a really stellar partnership.

Any time a new sound bite hit the air with Frank’s name attached to it, you could bet it was coming from Karen Page. Nobody knew what kind of influence she had over the man, but it was considerable. She was the only reporter he’d deign to talk to for more than three minutes at a time.

 

Which was how she found herself, on a chilly November night in 2014, sitting across from Frank Castle in Hoyle’s Gym in Hell’s Kitchen, getting an exclusive interview about his training regimen. It was for a ten minute spot meant to air the following week, all about athletes at the top of their game and how they train beyond the scope of the average competitor in their sport. Ellison had nearly fallen out of his seat when Karen told him that Frank had agreed to be interviewed, given that he could choose the location.

Foggy and Karen had arrived earlier that morning to get some B-roll footage of Frank doing his thing. Sparring with a local who frequented the gym; jumping rope in his boxing trunks; doing some incredible reps with a salmon ladder (that almost had her drooling where she stood—Frank Castle shirtless and straining was a beautiful sight).

They’d gotten some really wonderful shots of the gym, too, which looked exactly how she’d imagined a boxing gym established in the early 1910s would. Dark wood floors, old-school punching bags (the tan ones) hanging from rafters, black-and-white photos of boxers on the walls; two competition-regulation boxing rings in the center, surrounded by viewing benches. Foggy had felt a bit like a brilliant cinematographer, trying to capture the light through the high windows in such a way as to make the polished floors gleam on camera.

After they’d taken all of the B-roll footage they would need, they sat down on a bench (with a view of the training ring in the background) to go through the standard questions Karen had jotted down about Frank’s training regimen. How many hours do you train per day? Do you follow a special diet? How does Hoyle keep you from stagnating in your technique?

All of which Frank had answered very graciously. It had been a solid interview—very informative. But none of the pre-determined topics really hit on actual things Karen wanted to know. She had a million and one burning questions about Frank swirling around in her mind, and none of them had to do with whether or not he ate a superhuman amount of protein when gearing up for a match.

So when the interview had wrapped, and Foggy had packed up the camera to leave, Karen decided to stay behind for a little bit, just to see if she could get anything interesting out of Frank (off the record, of course). She couldn’t help it—he was intriguing. And in as long as they’d known each other, she could count on one hand the number of things she knew about his personal life: he had an ex-wife, he had at least one kid, he preferred Coke to Pepsi, he liked to read in his free time, and his favorite band was Creedence Clearwater Revival. Frank had gotten fantastic at holding entire conversations with her in which he revealed exactly nothing of value about his personal life. Sometimes she would walk away from a really great discussion, only to realize he’d managed to avoid truly talking about himself the entire time. And the scraps he _had_ given her were not nearly enough to satisfy her curiosity.

“So…” Karen took a few steps along the wall of the gym, her heels clicking on the concrete floors, as she dragged her fingers over a line of boxing gloves sitting on a shelf. “Hoyle’s Gym. It’s Curtis Hoyle’s dad’s place, right?” She already knew the answer, of course. She’d done her research as soon as he’d suggested they conduct the interview here.

Frank watched her walking around the space, looking so out of place in her dark purple dress and elegant updo that it was a little funny. But he knew better than to judge Karen by her red lips and perfectly-manicured nails. The woman knew her boxing.

“Yeah. Actually been in Curtis’s family for years.” Frank pointed to a line of photographs hanging above the gloves. “Way back since his great-great-grandfather.”

“Wow.” Karen stretched up onto her toes to squint at the photos, most of which were in black and white. “So this place is like a neighborhood institution?”

“Yes ma’am.” Karen turned at the sound of a new voice, and saw Curtis Hoyle exiting his office, hands in his pockets, making his way toward her. Frank had assured her that his trainer was around the building somewhere, but the man had been _persona non grata_ during the interview. If anyone was more camera-phobic than Frank Castle, it was Curtis Hoyle. Though he had no reason to be—he was a handsome man. “Family bought this building back in pre-Prohibition days. When Hell’s Kitchen was all immigrants and Irish mob.” Curtis clapped Frank on the shoulder as he passed by, stopping next to Karen and pointing to one of the photographs. “My great-grandfather was a rum-runner. With the Gopher Gang. For a young, black man around that time, it was the best way to make money. Wasn’t until Prohibition ended that he realized he needed another way to support his family. So he built the gym.”

“That’s amazing.” Karen reached up to touch a face in one of the photos. “That him?”

“Yep.” Curtis nodded.

“He looks just like you.”

“Got a lot of Hoyle in my blood.” He turned to Karen. “I’m Curtis, by the way. Haven’t formally introduced myself.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Curtis. I’m Karen.” She shook his hand.

Curtis Hoyle was a bit of a strange case in the boxing world. Not only was he not technically a professional trainer, but Frank Castle was his only client. Whereas most trainers had entire schools built around their style, taking on multiple fighters at once, Curtis was just Frank’s. It had shaken the foundation of the sport just a little bit, for such an unknown boxer to pair up with an obscure trainer, and eventually take the top spot at the WBA. Quite unheard of. But again, because of Frank’s notoriety for shying away from interviews, nobody ever really got the backstory behind their pairing. Nobody could explain where the two of them had come from.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too, Karen.”

She shot a quick look at Frank, who was busy digging through his gym bag to find a shirt.

“Good things, hopefully.”

“Very.” There was something of amusement in Curtis’s voice, which had Karen’s eyebrow shooting up.

“So…your dad still owns this place? Or has he passed it onto you yet?” She swung her arm out in a gesture meant to encompass the entire building—equipment and all.

“It’s still in his name, officially. But I’ve taken over running the place. He’s getting too old to oversee the day-to-day around here.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that. He could still kick your ass.” Frank scoffed, pulling a Henley over his head. Dark grey. Karen made a conscious effort not to ogle him.

“Probably could. Tough old man.” Curtis snorted, grinning. There was obvious affection in his voice as he spoke about his dad, and Karen felt a brief and bitter spike of longing in her chest. She remembered the days she held real affection for her own father. But now was not the time to think about him.

“So did you always want to run the gym?” Karen continued to peruse the photos.

Curtis paused, frowning slightly. “I’m not on the record here, am I? Feel like I’m being interviewed.”

Karen laughed. “No, you’re not. You and Frank—both so concerned with that.” She shook her head. “You won’t hear anything you tell me on the news. I promise.”

“You can trust her.” Frank piped up, coming to join them as they stood off to the side of the room. And it was true—after the little comment he’d made to her about a year ago, the one about Frankie Jr. and Maria, there had been a small part of him still expecting to hear about his family life splashed across CBS NY the next day. But he hadn’t—Karen hadn’t said a word. She was the kind of person who knew what was public information and what was meant to be private.

“Good.” Curtis nodded. “Frank and I like our privacy.”

“I’ve noticed.” Karen’s lips quirked. “I think everyone has.”

“Well, can’t be too careful with your private life in this day and age, can you?” Curtis sighed, thinking. “But no. I didn’t always want to run the gym. Actually got a degree in counselling psychology from Columbia. My M.S. Wanted to work with kids undergoing trauma.”

“Really? That’s amazing!” Karen hoped her shock wasn’t offensive. It was just such an unexpected thing—for a boxing trainer to have been educated in therapy.

“Yeah. My dad was the one who put me on the path.” Curtis bobbed his head. “He started this program, when I was a little kid, where he mentored troubled youths. Brought them to the gym after school—taught them anything they wanted to know—kept them off the streets. That’s actually how I met Frank.”

Frank jolted at the mention of his name—he hadn’t expected the conversation to turn toward him, and he was a little bit uncomfortable with the shift in topic. Didn’t like when his personal life was the focus of discussion.

“Really?” Karen shot her eyes toward him, taking in his sudden tension. Clearly he wasn’t entirely on board with discussing the way he met Curtis. Sure, she could have changed the subject—diverted the conversation for him. But she couldn’t help herself. She was interested. “Were you a troubled youth, Frank?”

“Boy was he!” A fourth voice joined in the conversation, as Frank, Curtis, and Karen all turned toward the front entrance to see David Lieberman heading toward them, tripping over an abandoned jump rope as he did. Holding his hands out to steady himself, he righted, kicking the offending piece of equipment to the other side of the gym. Grinning, he pointed at Frank. “This kid was so close to getting kicked out of high school every year, I’m surprised as hell they let him graduate.”

“David.” Frank spoke with a bit of warning in his tone, which the other man shrugged off, as though he were more than used to it.

“What? It’s true!” He nodded to Curtis in greeting as he joined their little group. “I’m David Lieberman, by the way. You’re Karen Page.” He held out his hand for Karen to shake, which she did. His grip was a little overzealous. “And if you want the scoop about Frank Castle, I’m your man. Known him since I was in diapers.”

“David.” Frank said his name again, exasperated.

“What?! Can’t a guy reminisce a little bit with his buddies? Is that illegal?”

“Well, when there’s a reporter present.” Curtis jerked his head in Karen’s direction, and she suddenly felt like an outsider in this setting.

“I promise,” she held up her hands in a sign of innocence. “I am 100% not here as a reporter right now. All I did was ask about who owned the gym, and it somehow turned into _this_.” She gestured between them.

“See? She’s not here to leak all our secrets to the press,” David grinned. “In fact, she seems like a real nice lady.”

Frank sighed. He could see he was not going to be able to back his way out of this one, so he figured he might as well lean into it a little. Turning to Karen, he shrugged.

“Yeah, I was kind of a bad kid. Parents had me when they were in their forties—by the time I was a teenager, they couldn’t really control me.” He shook his head. “Grew up in a rough neighborhood a few blocks from here. Lots of people getting into heavy shit; luckily I managed to avoid all that. It was kid stuff with me: truancy; staring fights at school; smoking under the bleachers.”

“Sophomore year, his guidance counselor turned him over to my dad, to see if he could do anything to straighten him out.” Curtis piped up. “That’s when we met. Started training together—learning to box. It’s a great way to take all that teenage anger and energy and turn it into something good.”

“Wow.” Karen raised her eyebrows. “You do realize that’s, like, the most stereotypical backstory for a boxer I’ve ever heard?”

Frank cracked a smile.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him all along!” David threw up his hands. “Troubled kid learns to channel his anger through boxing? Classic!”

“I don’t know that it was anger I was channeling.” Frank frowned. “I wasn’t an angry kid.”

“Ehh…” Curtis squinted, tilting his head back and forth in a _so-so_ gesture. “You kinda were.”

“Was I?”

“Yeah. But I mean, who isn’t angry when they’re a teenager? Kids run on that shit. It’s like fuel for them.” David nodded sagely.

“Sometimes they don’t even need a reason to be pissed. They just are.” Curtis added.

“That something you learned getting that fancy Master’s degree?” Frank rolled his eyes.

“Nah. That one I figured out on my own.” Curtis shook his head.

“I think it’s mostly about disenfranchisement.” Karen spoke, and they all looked at her, confused. “I mean,” she explained. “When you’re a teenager, your whole life is just everyone telling you what to do; what to think. Where to go and who to be. And nobody treats you like you have a worthwhile thought in your head, or like you have this rich inner life, which you _do_. And that’s so frustrating. Comes out as anger.”

“Huh,” David looked at her, impressed, “maybe you should come talk to my daughter, Leo, someday. She’s 12 now, and I can tell she’s going to be a wicked teenager.”

“Or Lisa,” Frank added. “She’s already giving her mom hell about having to wear a uniform to school.” He was starting to loosen up—talking to Curtis and David always had him feeling like he could say anything. He almost forgot that Karen wasn’t a part of their crew.

Karen, for her part, felt a little bit like a squirrel, picking up every piece of information she could gather about Frank’s personal life and hoarding it away. Frankie Jr. _and_ Lisa—he had at least two kids. That was new intel.

“Man, I’m so glad I don’t have children.” Curtis shook his head. “Free bird over here.” He spread his arms wide. “Can go anywhere I want, when I want. Nobody telling me what to do.”

“Oh, speaking of,” David wheeled toward Frank. “I just remembered why I even came in here in the first place. Sarah wanted me to pick you up and force you to come to dinner tonight. She’s making baked ziti.”

“Sarah’s cooking? You don’t have to convince me.” Frank glanced down at his watch, then up at Karen. “Looks like it’s time for me to cut out.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.” Karen looked around for her briefcase, which was still sitting on the bench where they had conducted their interview. “Thanks so much for answering all my questions, Frank. And for letting me bother you afterwards, too.” She grinned at him as she gathered her things.

“Wasn’t a bother.” Frank quirked a smile her direction, while Curtis and David exchanged glances behind his back. “Let me know when it’s set to air?”

“Sure thing.” Karen hoisted her bag on her shoulder, then turned to David and Curtis. “Great meeting you guys. Awesome place you have here, Hoyle.” She waved her hand.

“Yeah, great meeting you too.” Curtis bobbed his head.

“See ya around, I’m sure!” David added, as Karen left the building.

It was quiet for a moment.

“So…” David spoke, his voice knowing. “ _That’s_ Karen Page, huh?”

“That’s Karen Page.” Frank grabbed his gym bag, ready to leave.

“Interesting.” David’s grin was just a little annoying.

“ _Very_ interesting.” Curtis joined in.

“Nope. No it isn’t. Let’s go.” Frank grabbed onto David’s arm, steering him out the door.

“Veeeeery interesting.” David called over his shoulder, smirking at Curtis.

“Very veeeeery interesting!” Curtis called back, as the two men disappeared into the parking lot.

“Both of you shut up!”

Frank’s voice carried through the door, and had Curtis snickering to himself.

 

The interview with Frank was a hit. Almost immediately after it aired, it was picked up by various other stations, who seemed to play short clips from Karen’s conversation with Frank almost non-stop. For a while, the fact that an interview with Castle lasting longer than 5 minutes even _existed_ was the big news. Splashed all over the message boards—circulated among boxing and Castle fans alike. The very concept that someone actually got the man to sit down for more than a breath of time and give multiple sentence answers to a question—it was huge. Massive. It was the only thing Castle fans could talk about.

Until three months later, when Frank Castle disappeared.

 Then that was the news. It was the _only_ news.


	3. Dark Days AKA "White Roses Mean Remembrance"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey my guys! writing time skips are always awkard, but whatcha gonna do?

It was 3:15 AM, January 5, 2015 when Karen heard the news. Phone blaring to life like a call to arms—the shriek of her ringtone cutting through the thick, dark haze of sleep. Immediately, she was awake; sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, reaching for the light on her nightstand.

It’s never good news when someone calls in the small hours of the morning. Nobody rings you up at 3AM to say happy birthday, or to ask you how you’re doing, or to offer you a free cruise.

No.

3 AM calls are creatures of desperation—harbingers of tragedy and messengers bearing information you wish you could unlearn. In fact, the last 3AM call Karen had received was when Kevin died. And before that, when her mother had finally succumb to the cancer. So she didn’t have the best track record with picking up the phone before the sun was up. Oh-for-two, in fact.

But she did it anyway.

“Hello?” It was a question, more than a greeting. The grogginess in her voice causing the word to come out thick in her throat.

“Karen.” Trish’s tone, heavy and low, confirmed her suspicions. Whatever the other woman had to say, it was _not_ good. “I’m sorry to wake you up. I just—I just have something you’ll want to hear.”

Karen’s mind immediately ran through all of the possibilities: had someone died? Someone they both loved, like Jess? Was there a natural disaster on its way that only Trish knew about? Had there been, like, a _fire_ at the news station and everything was up in flames? She took a steadying breath.

“Uh, yeah. It’s fine. I’m up. What’s going on?” Karen managed, valiantly, to keep the panic from her voice.

“One of my stringers was out late tonight, keeping up with the police blotter. Sent me something that’s…that’s not good. I wanted you to be the first person to know.”

“Okay,” Karen ran a hand through her hair. “Okay. Give it to me straight.”

“Well, uh,” Trish paused, and Karen felt like she could just about strangle the woman. _Spit it out_. “There was a shooting up in Vinegar Hill. I don’t have the details yet, but it looks to be gang related. Two dead—both teenagers. And a man rushed to the hospital with multiple bullet wounds in the torso and the head.”

Karen frowned, confused. It was sad, yes—extremely sad—but Vinegar Hill wasn’t exactly known as a safe area. Things like this happened all the time. And, at the risk of sounding horribly callous, Karen didn’t know why this particular shooting warranted a 3AM phone call.

“Okay?”

“Karen, the guy in the hospital? It’s Frank Castle.”

There are some emotions that are difficult to explain—that exist in the kind of liminal space between other, more easily understood feelings like love and hate and fear. There are some emotions that don’t have a name: the sensation of looking up at someone one day and beginning to wonder, for the first time, whether or not you really love them; the moment when you get exactly what you’ve always wanted, but begin to feel guilty for all of those who never will; the sense of coming home to an empty apartment after a long trip away, and feeling both an abiding comfort and a profound impression of loneliness.

And Karen was feeling one of those confusing, nameless emotions at that moment—a deep and personal sense of mourning for someone she wasn’t exactly sure she was _allowed_ to feel that way toward. Because Frank Castle? Well, she felt something for him—something real. A kind of kinship; a connection; a sense of belonging, like they were two people who, at their bare bones, understood each other. But she didn’t know that she’d really earned the right to feel that way; that she truly knew Frank well enough to think of him in such delicate, intimate terms.

Hearing Trish say that he was in the hospital, multiple bullet wounds riddling his body, felt a bit like the moment she’d learned about Kevin’s car crash. And that wasn’t right, was it? Kevin was her _brother_ ; Frank was a man she hardly knew.

“Karen? Are you…are you still there?” Trish’s voice was concerned.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah.” Karen slid out of bed, the sudden need to pace overwhelming. “Is he—do you know what his chances are? Do you know if he’s going to make it?”

“No. I’m sorry. All I have is the info from my stringer—he followed the ambulance to the hospital, but didn’t go inside.”

“Which hospital?”

“Karen.” There was a touch of warning in Trish’s voice. “Why do you need to know?”

“So I can—I don’t know.”

“So you can call the doctors and bother them while they’re trying to save Frank’s life? Yeah, no.” Karen could practically hear Trish shaking her head over the phone.

“No, not that. I wouldn’t—” Karen started to protest, but stopped. It was a lie; she _would_. “I just want to know where he is. Just to know. I can’t explain it, but I just need to _know_.”

Trish paused, considering. Then sighed. “Metro-General.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay.” Trish sounded a little conflicted, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to let Karen go. “I just wanted to let you know. As soon as I heard.”

“I appreciate it, Trish. I do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

After hanging up, Karen couldn’t go back to sleep. It felt wrong—to let herself drift off into peaceful unconsciousness while she knew that Frank was in an operating room at Metro-General, fighting for his life. Her first instinct was to get dressed, grab her purse, and get her ass to the hospital. To at least feel like she was doing _something_.

But that wasn’t really an option. She could just see herself, walking into a waiting room filled with Frank’s closest friends and family—his ex-wife and kids—having to explain that, while she wouldn’t consider herself a close, personal friend of Frank’s, she felt a kind of comradery with him that made her unnaturally invested in his well-being. She was sure _that_ would go over well.

So instead, she paced. A lot. Around the living room and the bed room, stopping off in the kitchen for a cup of coffee every once in a while. Watching as the deepening darkness of night gave way to the pale blues and yellows of early morning. And she refreshed the internet—over and over again—to see if there was anything new being reported.

By 6AM, as Karen was getting ready to leave for work, she’d pieced together enough details to get the full story: Frank, walking home from the gym last night, sees a young boy being mugged by a group of gangbangers. Having a touch of big-fucking-hero complex, he decides to intervene. Manages to take out three of the assailants before another crew of gang bangers shows up—the boy being mugged apparently one of their own. Guns are drawn—shots are fired—two teenagers are wheeled away in body bags and Castle ends up in the hospital with a bullet in the brain and three in the torso.

Karen couldn’t say why, but the more details she gathered about the story, the more upset it made her. Maybe because the idea of Frank trying to step in and help a defenseless kid struck right to the most human part of her. Or maybe because, in spite of his efforts, two teenagers had still died. Or possibly it was just the whole situation—the unfairness of it all—that there were pockets of the city where violence was as essential as breathing; that the universe saw fit to steal the lives of two young men; that good deeds are often punished. The whole thing hurt. Had her feeling raw; exposed.

So it was less than ideal that the shooting was the only thing anybody at work seemed capable of talking about, though updates on Frank’s condition were rare and slow in coming, which meant that everyone stood around the proverbial watercooler just exchanging the same three pieces of gossip over and over again. It was maddening. Karen wanted to scream—she felt like she was going crazy, having to listen to people in the office talking about Frank Castle like some interesting, macabre case, and not like a real person. A real person that Karen actually fucking cared about.

But if David Lieberman worked hard to keep Frank’s personal life out of the press _before_ the injury, he was working double time now. Because there was not a single new piece of information about his condition until well into mid-afternoon the next day, when a statement was released that simply read:

_Frank Castle survived surgery. He is recuperating._

As far as recovery updates went, Karen thought bitterly, it was pretty shitty.

So he was alive—that was good. That was so, so much. But there were absolutely no other details. Every sports reporter in the nation was scrambling to find out _something_ more—just a single, little piece of information to put them over the edge. The floor on Metro-General where Frank was being held had received so many calls from networks all over the nation that every phone number associated with a member of the press had been blocked.

In the absence of any real intel, the news fell to speculation. There were rumors—on ESPN and NBC and FOX—that Frank would never walk again. That he would never fight again; that his brain had been damaged beyond full repair. Talking heads screaming at each other all day long, slinging blind bullshit back and forth about Castle’s condition, with no real evidence to back up their claims. Despite Ellison’s insistence that Karen jump into the fray and get a slice of that high-ratings, rumor-mill action, she refused. She was not going to have anything to do with invading Frank’s personal life, adding gossip on top of what was most certainly an incredibly stressful time for his family.

Days without updates from Frank Castle’s team turned to weeks. And eventually, the weeks turned into a month, as they are wont to do. And still—nothing. No news whatsoever. Nobody knew whether or not Frank was still in the hospital, or if he had been moved to a physical therapy facility, or if he was even stable enough for such a thing to happen.

And while the media interest in Frank Castle began to die down a little—once it became obvious that Lieberman and Hoyle weren’t going to play into the gossip frenzy—it was the exact opposite for Karen. Every single day without news, without knowing what was going on with him, was a twist of the knife in her gut. Trying to paste on a smile—doing her makeup for the camera and picking out her most professional outfits to interview baseball players and linebackers—was a chore that was almost beyond her, when all she wanted to do was figure out what was happening to Frank.

She had David’s number in her back pocket—he’d given it to her when she’d set up the interview at Hoyle’s Gym all those months ago. But she refused to use it. She didn’t want to be one of those media sharks injecting herself into a situation where she didn’t really belong.

So instead she just suffered—silently—with no information. Waiting for anyone from Team Castle to reach out to her—wondering if she was someone they would even _think_ to reach out to.

 

It was exactly a month and half after the shooting that Karen came home from work to a delivery of white roses on her door-step—perfect little buds in an unassuming clay pot.

“What the…?” She hoisted her briefcase up on her shoulder, eyeing the flowers with suspicion. It was a true testament to how long she’d lived in New York that her first instinct, upon seeing a mysterious delivery of roses, was wariness.

As she stepped forward, she noticed a card attached to the pot, and bent down to pick it up. Her name was written on the front, in loopy cursive writing. Script she didn’t recognize.

She slid her thumbnail underneath the sticker holding the envelope closed, and unfolded a piece of notebook paper. Her brow furrowed.

The upper half of the paper was covered in what looked like a child’s hand-writing. Big and messy and incredibly laborious. She squinted at it for a moment, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Eyes darting down, she saw the second half of the paper filled with the same looping cursive in which her name had been written. It read:

_Dear Miss Page,_

_My name is Maria. We don’t know each other, but I’m Frank’s ex-wife (and translator, apparently). He insisted on writing this letter to you himself, but the anesthesia mixed with some lingering brain issues have made his hand-writing almost impossible to read. I’ve transcribed it below:_

_Karen,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reach out to you sooner. You understand. I wanted to thank you for everything—I’m not sure how to say what. For not jumping in on the gossip around the shooting; for being a friend. I’m going away for a while. Not sure when I’ll be back. Wanted you to know._

_Frank_

_If you know Frank at all, like I know you do, you’ll understand how to read between the lines. I want to offer my own gratitude for not getting involved in the muck-raking surrounding Frank’s injury. He says you are trustworthy—that you know how to keep things to yourself—so I wanted to give you a head’s up. Things aren’t looking great. The doctors won’t say it to our faces, but we know the chances of Frank ever fighting again are slim. Curtis and David are taking him away—somewhere to recover where the pressure won’t be so great. I think he’s wanting to disappear. Just for a little while. He hopes to see you again someday, but I think he’s not counting on it._

_Best of luck and thank you for being someone who cares,_

_Maria_

Karen’s hands were shaking—she didn’t know when they started, only that they were. And suddenly, standing upright was just a little too exhausting. Leaning against the wall outside her door, she slid to the floor, a small gasp leaving her lips.

There was something so heartbreaking in that child-like handwriting; in the fact that Frank had _tried._ That he’d even thought about her in the first place—that he’d cared at all to let her know he would be leaving.

It was too much for a moment. A wave of unutterable sadness washed over her, as she tried to imagine strong, solid, defiant Frank barely able to hold a pen. It was a gut-punch, thinking about those hands that made such powerful fists, shaking, as weak as a child’s.

Reaching out to her side, she picked up the pot of roses, placing it on her lap. They were beautiful—delicate little petals, white as snow. Just beginning to bloom. She cast back in her mind to the Home Economics course she’d taken in high school, trying to remember the symbolism of a white rose.

Remembrance.

That was one of the meanings. Karen ran a finger over one small bud. Was he asking her to remember him in his absence? Was it a promise to remember _her_? Biting her lip, Karen took a deep breath. No matter what, she promised herself—no matter how long he was gone—she wasn’t going to forget him. That was the promise of the white rose, after all, and she intended to keep it.

As she stood up, gathering her belongings and unlocking the door, she recalled another meaning to the white rose.

New Beginnings.

And she wondered, for a moment, if the new beginning was meant to be hers or his?

 

Grieving the loss of someone who is alive, it turns out, is almost as painful as grieving the loss of someone who is dead.

When her mother had passed—followed far too shortly by Kevin—the sorrow had been absolute. People often compare the feeling of losing a loved one to losing a limb. But Karen didn’t think that was right. You could adapt to losing a limb, like her cousin, Andrew, who lost a leg in Desert Storm. The injury had been deep—profound—not only physically, but to his psyche as well. It had taken a while, but eventually Andrew found ways to live around it: he got an amazing new prosthetic; had Huck, his service dog; joined all kinds of sports teams for people with disabilities. Did he miss his leg? Of course he did. But his life was no less full—no less vibrant and meaningful without it. He was still Andrew, who could walk into a bar and pick up chicks in seconds, or volunteer for trivia night at the last minute and kick everyone’s ass when it came to questions about old movies.

But losing a loved one? You never adapt to that loss, not the way that Andrew had. The hurt becomes a part of you—becomes integral to who you are. The first time you taste Death—step up to the edge of human mortality and stare it dead in the eye—the experience alters the very fabric of who you are. Or, at least it had for Karen. She could draw a definitive line down the middle of her life, dividing it into the Before and the After—before Kevin and Mom; after Kevin and Mom.

Before, Karen had lived with this sense of infinity—that all good things would hold. That there was no sorrow in life too deep that her optimism and determination couldn’t overcome. She’d been a child, raised on stories of good overcoming evil and light always prevailing over darkness; naïve and trusting, she’d believed every word.

After, Karen knew that there were some hurts too big to conquer. That sometimes pain is everything—an obliterating force that makes it impossible for you to remember ever experiencing a single good moment. Grief is greater than humanity, she’d realized. It had existed for far longer than she had. And it would continue to exist after all evidence of her life was wiped from the planet; it was a chthonic force beyond comprehension.

Which was why, in those months following her mother’s death, which had bled into Kevin’s, Karen had almost given up completely. Couldn’t find within herself the will to go on—to keep fighting for another day when everything seemed so hopeless. When she was powerless against the creature that held her head under smothering waves of loss and loneliness. She had stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and almost dropped out of undergrad. The amount of fight it would take to go on—to convince her pulse to pound—seemed almost too much.

But she’d pulled herself out of it. Or, more accurately, _Trish_ had pulled her out of it. Yanked her head from under water, sucked the sadness from her lungs, and made her keep going, keep marching on. An Angel of the Get-Through.

And once Karen was back on her feet again, she’d made a promise to herself to never let Grief grab hold of her so tightly ever again.

Despite her familiarity with outlasting grief, the months, and eventually years, that followed Frank Castle’s disappearance were difficult for Karen. Tense. In new and dumbfounding ways.

Because when her mother had died, and then Kevin, Karen’s pain was cut by a true sense that there was nothing she could do. That everything was out of her hands—these people, whom she loved with an almost manic fury—were gone from her life. And no amount of fighting and raging and screaming could pierce the veil between them. The impenetrable divide of death.

But Frank? He was _alive_. He was out there, somewhere, living. And if Karen tried hard enough, she was sure she could find him.

Except he didn’t want to be found. Every time the temptation got too great, and she wanted to put on her detective hat and call in a few favors, she just had to remind herself. Look at the letter she’d stuck to her refrigerator with a magnet:

“I think he’s wanting to disappear.”

That’s what Maria had said. And Karen would let him—if that’s what he wanted. She’d let him disappear.

 

But she wouldn’t forget about him. Even if the rest of the world began to—she wouldn’t. She owed him too much. What he’d done for her, that first day they’d met—telling her that she didn’t have to be this thing everyone else wanted her to be? It had changed her life so dramatically, she couldn’t let his memory die if she tried.

So she did what she could to keep his name alive in the boxing world. Brought him up during interviews with other fighters, casually threw in references to some of his more famous matches when running on-air commentary, and made sure that CBS NY ran a small piece about him every year on the anniversary of the shooting. It didn’t take long for her to become known as the biggest champion of Frank Castle’s memory in the industry. And she liked it that way.

 

“Karen, can you remind me again why, exactly, we are sitting in the shadiest fucking bar in all of Manhattan at 6pm on a Friday night?” Foggy spared a nervous glance around the place, taking in the clientele. Mostly sad, derelict cases who looked like they could be extras in a _Trainspotting_ reboot set in New York City. He put a protective hand on his camera, pulling it to his chest—they had just come straight from an interview with the captain of The Rangers. Walked the two blocks from their meeting spot to the bar, so he hadn’t gotten the chance to drop his things in the van.

“Because I won’t be able to get home in time for the news and Janet behind the bar lets me change the channel whenever I want.” Karen stared down at the remote, punching in numbers.

“And that matters because…?”

“Because it’s January 5th, Foggy.”

“I like this new thing you’re doing where you’re answering all my questions with unrelated facts. It’s fun.” Foggy raised his beer to his lips, sending Karen an exasperated look.

“January 5th.” Karen repeated, then sighed when Foggy continued to look at her like she was crazy. “It’s been one year since Frank Castle’s shooting, Fog.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. _Oh_.” Karen landed on CBS NY, then put down the remote. “I convinced Ellison to run a spot on Frank, using old footage from before. And I wanted to watch it.”

Foggy observed her carefully, as she looked up, eyes glued to the screen, waiting for her segment to come on. He took another thoughtful sip of his beer, contemplating.

“You know, Karen, I think we get along so well because you’re sane.”

“What?” Karen’s eyes left the TV for just a moment, darting toward him with a confused furrow of the brow.

“Yeah.” Foggy nodded. “A lot of reporters in this industry—they get a little crazy. A little up their own asses, right? Like Brad Whittington, for example? That guy’s Instagram page is just hundreds of shirtless vacation pics of himself. A sane person doesn’t do that shit.”

“Okay.” Karen was only half-listening.

“So I’ve always liked working with you because you’re not crazy.” Foggy continued. “But I gotta be honest, Kare, I think this obsession you have with Frank Castle is pushing it a little.”

All of the sudden, Karen’s full attention was on him. “Huh?”

“I mean, look—what happened to the guy was tragic, right? I get that.” Foggy held up a staying hand as Karen opened her mouth to speak. “But either I’m missing some vital piece of information here or you are losing it a bit. Because if I recall, you and Frank were never, like, _besties_ or anything. You had some kind of connection, everyone knew that. You were the only person he seemed able to tolerate. But you weren’t telling each other secrets and braiding each other’s hair or anything. So I just don’t get why you’re so obsessed with him.”

“Foggy, I knew the guy for _three years_.”

“So did I.”

“But not like I did.” Karen frowned. She couldn’t really explain why Frank meant so much to her. Didn’t know how to put it in a way that would make anyone understand. She ran a hand through her hair. “Look, Fog, you know how there are some people you can know for years, but you never truly give a fuck about? Like, sure, you care about them in some way, but you don’t ever get invested in them?”

“Uh, maybe?” Foggy squinted, thinking.

“Like most of my old friends from high school, for instance. Lisa Hamilton and Debbie Kahoe and Jonathon Knight.” Karen counted off on her fingers. “These were people I spent four years of non-stop bonding with. Going to school dances and having sleepovers and TPing teacher’s houses. Teenager stuff. But the second I went off to college, we just lost contact. Didn’t even _try_ to stay friends. Because it was proximity that had brought us together—nothing deeper.”

“Yeah, I get that. I had friends like that, too. Bobby Wheelen and Aaron Palmer.” Foggy’s voice was far away—reminiscing.

“Okay, so you get how spending a lot of time with someone doesn’t really correlate to caring about them, right?”

“Uh huh,” Foggy nodded, picking up on where she was going with things.

“Okay, well I think sometimes there are other people—people you just click with. Who you can meet for no more than a few minutes, and that ineffable _thing_ is just there.” Karen snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Or those people you can go months without seeing, without calling or texting, and the moment you see each other in person again, everything is just the same. Like Lego blocks fitting together.”

“Yeah.”

“Well I think with me and Frank, it was a little bit like that.” Karen glanced back at the TV screen—her segment hadn’t come on yet—then looked back at Foggy “I mean, sure, Frank and I never got dinner together or spent a lot of time with each other outside of work situations, but there was something there.” Something in her blood that made her feel like she _knew_ him. On some completely insane level. “Plus, he did so much for me early in my career, right? He was _always_ championing me; supporting me. That means a lot.”

“I know.” Foggy began peeling at the label of his beer with the corner of his thumbnail. “I just worry that you’re fixating, and not letting yourself move passed the fact that he’s gone.”

“Well, I appreciate the concern, Foggy, but I’m really okay. I promise I’m still sane.” Karen’s lips quirked up. She heard the bombastic intro music to the CBS NY sports broadcast, and whipped back to stare at the screen just in time to see her segment begin to roll.

“Whatever you say, Kare.” Foggy shook his head, staring at her for a long time, before turning to watch as well.

 

If Foggy hoped that Karen’s obsession with Frank Castle would die down over time, he could not have been more wrong. Because if Karen Page was one thing, it was stubborn. And once she’d decided that she cared about something, there was nothing in the world that could convince her otherwise.

 

“Kare, you in there?” Trish’s voice, followed by a quick little rap at her office door, had Karen glancing up from her computer screen. She checked her watch—it was 7PM. Usually, she’d be at home by now, but she’d been staying late the last several evenings to catch up on a bit of work; apparently, Trish had as well.

“Yeah—come in!” She let herself collapse back into the cushion of her swivel chair, removing her glasses and rubbing her fingers down the bridge of her nose.

“I brought company—” Trish’s head peeked around the door, followed by Jess, who less ‘peeked around the door’ and more ‘kicked it open with gusto and then marched right in.’

“Alright, Page. Listen up. We’re here to prep you for The Knockout Box tomorrow night.” Jess fell into one of the chairs opposite Karen’s desk with an utterly graceless huff. Trish followed her lead, albeit much more daintily, sitting on the edge of her seat with her ankles crossed.

“Uh, no offense, but I’ve been doing this for years. I don’t exactly need to be prepped for this kind of thing anymore.” Karen raised a brow, subtly reaching out to shuffle some of the papers on her desk into a drawer. (She didn’t want Trish to see them; she knew what the other woman would say: “Are you still collecting articles on Castle’s disappearance? It’s been two years, honey, you need to let it go.”)

“Uh, no offense to _you_ ,” Jess countered, jabbing a finger at Karen, “but The Knockout Box is completely different from anything you’ve ever done before. Trust me. I’ve seen people get eaten alive on that show.”

“It’s true.” Trish nodded, eyes solemn. “Kurt Harrison’s a real asshole.”

And it _was_ true—Kurt Harrison _was_ a real asshole. More so than the average misogynistic shit stains Karen still dealt with on a daily basis. His show, The Knockout Box, was broadcast on El Rey network. It was ostensibly a boxing talk show, though Karen would really call it more of a _yell_ show, as Harrison tended toward dramatics more than he did a calm and meaningful discussion of the sport. Every Friday night, he gathered a new round of commentators to discuss either a specific match or a particular boxer on live TV—cajoling, arguing, and ball-busting his way through the hour.

This Friday night, Karen had been invited to sit on the panel. She had finally reached a point in her career where people had accepted that she was sticking around; realized it was easier to play ball with her than ignore her, because she wasn’t going away.

She’d received word, only the day before, that they were to be discussing an up-and-coming star in the boxing world—Matt “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” Murdock. In the years since Frank’s disappearance, several young upstarts had made plays for his throne, trying to work their way up to the #1 spot in the WBA—guts, glory, and all. None of them seemed to have the talent necessary to reach Frank’s level of power and skill. None even came close.

Until Matthew Murdock. The guy had been playing the amateur circuit for years, before finally getting the bump to go pro. He was an interesting case—a counterpuncher who was particularly skilled at the psychological aspect of the game, using techniques intended to lure his opponent into a mistake, which he could then capitalize on with surprisingly adept in-boxing. While it wasn’t exactly unusual for a skilled counterpuncher to climb the ranks against sluggers and swarmers with much less finesse and ring-tactic, it was Murdock’s particular style of footwork that was a puzzle to most.

He almost seemed to glide around the ring with a dancer’s step—light, airy—even in moments where a boxer would traditionally plant himself into the canvas for stability, Murdock remained on his toes. His style was a little bit…strange for an American fighter. And there had been some speculation early on that he’d originally trained in more Eastern martial arts (Karen’s best guess was something like silat or wing chun). Whatever his influences were, his unusual brand of footwork was seemingly impossible for other fighters to mimic, and thus incredibly difficult to counter.

Karen had been in the middle of some background research, watching footage of Malaysian silat tournaments in one window; Murdock’s fights in another, when Trish and Jess had entered.

“Come on, now.” Karen slipped her chin into her palm, elbow resting on the desk. “I’ve been handling assholes for years. Harrison isn’t anything I can’t deal with.”

“I don’t know…” Trish pursed her lips, skeptical. “You’ve had it kind of cushy recently—people are starting to take you seriously. But Harrison doesn’t give a shit about all that. I guarantee you he’s not the type to refrain from the low blow if he feels like he’s not getting his way with you.”

“Well, I can fight dirty, too.” Karen crossed her arms over her chest.

“Oh, we know that.” Jess rolled her eyes. “A little too well, honestly. We’re just worried you’ll pull your punches because it’s live TV, y’know. That you’ll reign it in because I won’t be around to edit out any four letter words you drop.”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about? That I’ll pull my punches?”

“Little bit.” Trish held up her thumb and pointer finger, squinting.

“Well Jesus, do you two not know me at all? When have I ever held back when someone’s got my ass in a corner?” There was a pause. “Discounting the entire first year of my career,” Karen amended, with a slight grimace.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big tough girl with balls of steel. We get you.” Jess waved a dismissive hand.

“We just wanted to make sure you were prepared for the possibility that Harrison isn’t going to play nice.” Trish tried not to let her voice sound overly-apprehensive.

“Oh, I’m prepared.” Karen grinned. “In fact, I’m raring to go.”

 

She should have guessed, from the moment she stepped into Harrison’s studio, what kind of an evening she was going to have. Not only was there a Monster energy drink machine in the lobby, but the hallways were all lined with posters from G3 movies (guns, girls, and g-strings)— _The Dallas Connection, Fit to Kill, Hard Ticket to Hawaii, Malibu Express_. It was like an Andy Sidaris shrine. And the scent that permeated the entire place—cigar smoke and Axe body spray—was less than pleasant. Karen even passed by a life-size cutout of Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch swimsuit on her way to get mic’d up. She really should have known it was going to be a wild ride.

And there was the rest of the panel, too—Brad Whittington and a relatively new reporter from ESPN, Jackson Mills. Neither of whom gave her the warmest greeting when she took a seat in the overstuffed chair at the far end of the sound stage, furthest away from Kurt Harrison. She got the feeling that neither of them really wanted her there. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the only unwelcome element at one of these things.

So really, she shouldn’t have been at all surprised when the bright lights turned on, the cameras started rolling, and Harrison introduced the panel as follows:

“Welcome to The Knockout Box. I’m your charming and charismatic host, Kurt Harrison,” (Karen had to keep from rolling her eyes—since when was a comb over, a beer gut, and a bad suit charming?), “and my guests today are Brad Whittington, one of our good ol’ boys from over at Fox News, Jackson Mills, a young stud coming to us from ESPN, and our eye candy for the evening, little Miss Karen Page from CBS NY.”

“Nope, Harrison.” Karen piped up immediately. “You wanna try that introduction again?”

“Aw, come on, doll, take a joke.” He shot a smarmy look her way, while Jackson and Brad chuckled dutifully at his side, like two little lackeys.

“Not your doll.” Karen shot back, and she could see a few of the camera men shift uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye.

“Oooh, this one’s gonna be feisty.” Harrison’s beer gut jiggled as he laughed. “Good thing we like ‘em that way, right boys?”

Karen shot a death glare at Whittington, who, while they didn’t particularly get along, was the least offensive of her colleagues (not saying much). He just smiled weakly at Harrison, looking a little put on the spot.

“Well,” pretending not to notice Karen’s hard glare, Harrison continued, “with that little bit of fun out of the way, I brought you all here to talk Murdock. Kid’s been rising in the ranks like nobody’s business, and he’s got a match against Grant Hass tomorrow night that I’ve personally got a lot of money riding on. So tell me, who do we think is going to win this one?”

“Well,” Jackson shifted forward in his seat. “I’d put my money on Murdock. Hass has never been the best at playing mind games in the ring, and that’s certainly Murdock’s specialty. I just don’t think Grant has the mental wherewithal to come up against Murdock as the victor here.”

“I agree,” Brad jumped in. “And with Murdock’s footwork, there’s no way Hass is quick enough to keep up with him, especially because he’s really been slacking in his out-boxing these past few match-ups.”

“Exactly,” Karen took her shot. “If you watch any Malaysian silat matches, you’ll see that Murdock’s style is—”

“Well, I think my money’s safe, then.” Harrison cut Karen off, sending a challenging little look her way. “If we all agree that Murdock has the clear upper hand.”

Karen’s eye was beginning to twitch. She could feel it. Not even five minutes into the fucking panel and she was ready to brawl. _Reign it in,_ she told herself, _wait it out._ She didn’t want to go ballistic so early in the program—not if she could help it. So she’d let Harrison get comfortable— _real_ comfortable—cutting her down, as she bided her time.

“So the question everyone circles back to with Murdock—what the hell do you even call his style of boxing? And the way he moves on the canvas? Where the hell did _that_ come from? Doesn’t look like any orthodox style I’ve ever seen.” Harrison ran his hand across his chin(s).

“Well, like I was saying,” Karen began, “if you look at Malaysian silat, there are certain moves called _langkahs,_ which—”

“Y’know, Harrison?” Jackson crossed one leg over the other, ankle on knee, and sent Karen a slow smile. “I’ve heard a lot of rumors that Murdock’s trainer was originally some kind of kung fu master.”

“Not kung fu,” Karen suppressed the urge to snarl. “It’s silat.”

Jackson ignored her. “Which begs the question, y’know, should fighters be disqualified for letting other styles influence their boxing? I mean, this isn’t MMA here.”

Jesus Christ. Karen felt her fists balling in her lap. It was always the same with men—once one of them walked all over a woman, the others felt they had the right too. As soon as Harrison had cut her off, he’d given Jackson and Brad to go-ahead signal to have their fun with her. The assholes.

“Now I don’t know,” Brad shook his head. “There’s a difference between being influenced by other styles of fighting and actually using them in the ring. Murdock’s good about toeing regulation line. Won’t catch him doing anything to get himself disqualified.”

“Yeah, but it’s the principal of the thing, ain’t it?” Harrison was almost yelling now. Karen wasn’t sure why—there was nobody for him to yell over. He just _was_. “Boxing is a good ol’ American sport. These kids out there should be playing it the American way. Not using all this fancy kung fu from the Orient.”

“Pretty sure the earliest depictions of boxing were Sumerian,” Karen spoke up, though she knew it would do no good. “Y’know, modern-day Iraq?”

Jackson and Brad both shot her looks, while Harrison plowed on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“I mean, you got boys like Ali and Sugar Ray and Joe Frazier. Solid, American boys playing the game the right way. They didn’t need any Chinese tricks to get the job done.”

The racism. The fucking racism—Karen was regretting ever setting foot on the sound stage. She clenched her jaw extra tight. _Bide your time, Karen_. It was her mantra. _Bide your time._

She allowed herself to slip into the background for a while, listening and working up a fury as Whittington, Mills, and Harrison all stoked each other’s respective dicks about how fucking brilliant they all were. And nobody seemed to mind—nobody even attempted to draw her back into the conversation once. In fact, Harrison kept glancing over at her a little smug, as though he was proud of himself for bullying her into submission. A quiet Karen Page—that was exactly what he’d wanted, after all.

It wasn’t until Frank Castle’s name came up—sounding distorted and slimy coming from Kurt Harrison’s mouth—that Karen knew her time had come.

It was a game that all these little boxing talk shows liked the play—the hypothetical “could this fighter have beaten The Punisher in his prime?” Nowadays, it seemed like the only time Frank’s existence was dredged to the surface was when he was being pit up against other boxers in an imaginary game of “who is a better fighter?” Because he had disappeared at the height of his career, it was a question that seemed to fascinate many fans of the sport.

It was fun, apparently, to play God with the body of a man who no longer existed.

“So, the big question of the hour, boys, are you ready?” Harrison looked from Jackson to Brad, hamming it up as though he were about to ask something revolutionary. “Who do you think would win in a match—The Punisher in his prime, or The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Hmmm, interesting.” Brad nodded sagely, and Karen wanted to smack him. It _wasn’t_ interesting—it really wasn’t. There were entire forums dedicated to that question; it had been asked so many goddamn times. “You know, I think Murdock, no question about it. He’s just got the footwork to outpace Castle, at any stage of his career.”

“I have to agree.” Jackson tilted his head in affirmation. “Murdock, no doubt.”

“Castle.” Karen’s voice was strong and hard. “You’re insane if you think Murdock could take Castle.”

Harrison’s beady eyes whipped to her instantly, his slow grin bleeding out a touch of menace, like she had played right into his trap.

“Well, of course _you_ would say that, sweetheart.” His smirk was acidic. “We all know about your, uh… _relationship_ with Castle. Before he disappeared.” Insinuation always felt a bit like needles prickling their way up her spine, and this accusation was particularly crude.

“Interesting.” Karen folded her hands in her lap, calm. “I always knew you traded in baseless rumors, but I thought, maybe for one brief moment, that you were too smart to buy into them yourself.” She shrugged. “Clearly I was kidding myself.”

Harrison drew back, as though stung. “Now listen here, little lady—”

“No, _you_ listen here. I wasn’t quite finished.” Karen’s voice rose, and she caught the bemused look fly between Jackson and Brad as she leaned forward, frowning. “If you think Murdock could beat Castle, you clearly haven’t been paying attention. You forget how versatile Castle proved himself to be in the ring. Swarmer one moment and out-boxer the next.”

“But Murdock’s got—” Brad tried to interject.

“Still not finished.” Karen’s words were a sharp edge, brokering no argument. “We’ve seen Murdock’s style prevail over your more stereotypical power players like Henton and Marsh. Obviously his defensive skill is great. But the second someone forces him to in-box, he loses all his command. Murdock’s skill rests too solidly on his ability to outlast—to keep his opponent at arm’s length.”

“Well, he clearly hasn’t—” Harrison attempted to speak, but Karen kept on, her voice rising above his every time he tried to interject.

“If you recall Castle’s match against Lichten in 2013, you’ll remember how he was able to switch-hit in the middle of each round, playing the out-box and the in-box in turn. He had Lichten clinching three times a round just to maintain stamina. And Lichten is the closest to Murdock you’re going to get without the silat influences.”

“No, you fail to understand how—,” Harrison kept attempting to speak over her, his voice rising as he interjected every few breaths. But Karen wasn’t giving up. She knew that eventually he’d have to back down; as misogynistic as he was, he didn’t want to be pegged as the guy to start viciously screaming at a woman on his show.

“And as far as the thinking side of the game, Castle was the best in the business.” Karen continued, getting louder every time Harrison opened his mouth—determined to beat him at his own game. “You need to review his bout with Douglas Hangar. He went full counterpuncher with that one; lured him into so many traps it was almost a flash knockdown in the first round.”

She knew she’d won the moment one of the sound techs frantically started waving to Harrison, telling him to lower his voice. They were going to ruin the audio if they kept escalating as they were.

With a choked noise and a red face, eyes bulging from his head, Harrison sat back in his seat with a huff. And Karen continued.

“And if you had spent any time looking at the tapes of Castle’s matches with Bogar or Wagner or Strickland, you would remember how stunning his footwork could be when he was dealing with a stylist who favors unorthodox movement. Hell, Castle was able to swarm Wagner so badly that he forced the guy to pull a haymaker in the final round. A notoriously cool-headed, out-boxer pulling a haymaker? Unprecedented.”

“Y’know,” Brad grimaced a little at the look Karen shot him, then held his hands up defensively. “I was just gonna say I think you have a point.” Karen’s shoulders relaxed marginally. “I mean, I think when we remember Castle, we mostly think of him as the mauler—we recall all of his most prominent power plays. But Karen’s right—Castle could also play the out-box like nobody’s business.”

Harrison’s glare was pure hatred, as he wheeled on Brad in a second. “You kidding me? Two minutes ago you were all about Murdock! Pretty little thing speaks up and you change your mind?”

“She’s got some good points,” Brad shrugged.

“And if you’d let me get a word out earlier, you’d understand even better why Castle would come out the clear winner.” Karen’s eyes were ice. “Murdock’s clearly influenced by the Malaysian style of silat, which teaches fighters various steps called _langkahs_. The only reason nobody is able to mimic Murdock’s style is because they haven’t taken the time to learn about and memorize the _langkahs_. I guarantee you that Castle wouldn’t go into a match with Murdock without a crash course in silat. But you would know that, if you had cared to do your research before the show, _sweetheart_.”

It was quiet for a moment, and poor little Jackson’s head whipped back and forth between Karen and Harrison. Luckily for all of them, really, the producer raised the signal that there was only a minute or so left on the clock.

Slowly, with the most sour look Karen had ever seen a man wear, Harrison turned to face the camera.

“Well,” he said, and his tone was particularly dark. “That certainly was an interesting session of The Knockout Box. I’ve been Kurt Harrison; tune in tomorrow when I’ll be running commentary over Murdock’s match-up with Hass. Hope to see you again, and have a knockout night.”

 

Karen didn’t stick around after the sign-off. Hell, she barely remembered to un-mic herself as she jogged past the audio tech staring at her with wide eyes. She just needed to get out of that place—that toxic environment that made her head absolutely swim. Bursting out into the parking lot, Karen fought down a retch, and placed a steadying hand against the outer wall as she doubled over.

She prided herself on being strong—a ballbuster—the kind of person who wasn’t afraid to stick up for herself. But there was something so sickening about having to fight like that—tooth and nail—for a little goddamn respect. Something that turned her gut when she thought about how she’d literally had to scream to get the chance to speak her peace.

Fights like those always left her feeling ill. And exhausted. No matter how tough you are, you never get used to the idea of struggling just to get scraps. To get your own space on the fucking planet.

“Fuck.” Karen took a few deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. She’d have to do an extra hour at the gym that night, just to work out all the manic, bubbling energy building up in her gut.

As she composed herself—slowly calming—her phone began to ding. Repeatedly. Rapidly. Yanking it out of her purse, she saw 5 texts from Jess, 3 from Trish, and one from her dad. Swiping open her screen, she let out a surprised little chuckle. The messages from Jess and Trish were all iterations of “Get his ass!”; “Yes! Slay him, Karen!”; “Oh my god, look how red his face is going!”; “You. Fucking. Ended. His. Life.” She didn’t even bother to read her father’s. She’d save that for another day, when her emotions weren’t already spilling all over the place.

She slid her phone back into her purse, turning it on airplane mode before she did. The texts of support were great, but she needed a moment to herself. Walking to her car, she was grateful that she’d remembered to pack her boxing gear in the trunk. She was headed straight to Hoyle’s Gym that night—no stops.

 

As she pulled into the parking lot of the gym, she let out a sigh of relief to see Luke’s truck sitting in the “Manager” spot. Sometimes he left early on Friday nights; sometimes he stayed late. She was glad he was there at that moment, because he was the only trainer she really liked working with.

When Frank had disappeared two years ago, Curtis Hoyle and David Lieberman had seemed to go with him. Just vanished into the night—to God knows where. Leaving Hoyle’s Gym without anyone to run it. Michael Hoyle, Curtis’s father, had made a valiant effort for a while, reclaiming his old post as acting manager/owner. But the early mornings unlocking the building when it was still dark outside, and the late nights closing up near midnight were too much for him. He was no longer a young man, and the job had proved too much. There was some question, for a while, whether or not Hoyle’s would be able to survive without Curtis—he had been the backbone of the whole place.

Then Luke Cage had shown up one day, with a notarized letter from Curtis Hoyle himself, giving him authorization to take over the whole enterprise. Cage, apparently, had been one of the kids Curtis’s father had mentored during his days of working with troubled youths. And he was the only person Curtis trusted with the family business.

Karen learned all of this, of course, after signing up for weekly boxing classes at Hoyle’s. It had been an attempt, in those early days of Frank’s absence, to get closer to the mystery. Part of her obsession. As if walking the same floors and breathing the same air as Frank had would give her some kind of insight into where he had gone. There had been a tiny part of her—a melodramatic part, in the far back of her mind—that imagined she’d be boxing one day, working out her frustration with Luke, only to look up and see Frank passing by the front window.

It was ridiculous, of course, and by the end of the first Frank-less year, she’d given up the silly little daydream. But she’d stuck with the boxing. It was a great way to get out all her pent-up aggression, and Luke wasn’t half bad to talk to. He reminded her of Frank, in just the slightest—tough, protective, kind.

“Had a feeling you’d be coming in tonight.” His booming voice greeted her the moment she set foot in the gym. “Saw you on The Knockout Box and thought ‘that girl’s gonna need to work out some tension.’”

Karen snorted, waving to some of the regulars she recognized as she made her way to the back boxing ring.

“You know me too well. Felt like I was about to explode the moment I stepped out of that sound stage.”

“Figured. Don’t worry, Kare. I got the cure.” Luke grinned, slipping on his boxing gloves.

“Spar?” She asked, pulling her own out of her bag.

“If you’re up for it.”

“Please. Don’t hold back.”

 

And he didn’t. For three hours, they went at it—grunting, huffing, sweat running down their faces. It was cathartic; every time Karen landed a glancing jab on Luke, she imagined it was Kurt Harrison’s sweaty, meaty face.

She pushed herself well past her limits—beyond the point of exhaustion. When Luke saw her begin to flag, he suggested taking a break, but she refused. Her body may have been tired, but the deep well-spring of rage fueling her was anything by tapped. She was going to throw punches until she couldn’t stand anymore.

Which was exactly what she did.

After a particularly risky, and not at all powerful bolo punch, she felt her body sagging forward. Her limbs giving up entirely.

“Woah there.” Luke managed to catch her at the last moment before hitting the mat. He lowered her to the floor, sitting down next to her as she sprawled out flat on her back, panting harshly. She fought to clear her blurry vision, blinking up quickly at the ceiling.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” Karen waved off Luke as he leaned over her, concerned. He didn’t look all too convinced, but let it slide. It was pointless to argue with Karen Page, especially when it concerned what she could and coulsn’t handle; he’d learned that very early on in their friendship.

“Let’s not do that again, huh, Page?” He took off his gloves, throwing them to the side. “How about next time I tell you to take a break, you listen to me.”

“Yeah, okay.” She nodded. But again, Luke was not all too convinced of that either. Couldn’t tell that woman anything.

It was quiet for a moment, as most of the other patrons had left the gym well into Karen’s little sparring session (though a few had stuck around for an hour or two, marveling at tiny Karen taking on behemoth Cage). The sound of cars driving by, high up on the expressway, filtered through the night air. Karen’s panting slowed, and the red in her face receded.

“Why does it bother you so much?” Luke finally asked, running a hand over his smooth head.

“Why does what bother me?”

“When they start playing that game with Castle? That ‘who would win in a fight’ game?”

“Uh,” Karen placed a hand on her side, pressing it against a growing stitch, and sat up. “I don’t know.” She shrugged.

“Really? You don’t know why it sends you flying off the handle every time?” He nudged her with his elbow, almost toppling her over.

“Well,” Karen sighed, shooting a hand out to steady herself. “I guess it brings up bad memories. Kind of makes me feel protective.”

“Bad memories?”

“Yeah.” Karen nodded, running a thumb along her bottom lip and thinking for a moment. “My brother, Kevin. You remember me talking about Kevin, right?” Luke bobbed his head in affirmation. “He was this big football player back home, in high school. Star quarterback. Real _Varsity Blues_ thing going on.” Karen removed her gloves, flexing her tired fingers. “When he died, there were all these people we knew from high school talking about what a great talent we’d lost; and how sad it was to see someone with so much potential cut down so young. Like the only reason his death mattered was because he was really great at catching a fucking football.”

“Hmm,” Luke made an understanding little noise.

“Pissed me off so much. It was just like…this reductive bullshit.” Karen rubbed at her nose. “Kevin was so many wonderful things. He told the best jokes, and he could always make me smile when I was hurt, and never once did he hesitate to stand up for other people if he saw them being bullied. He was kind and smart and good. He was my _brother_.” She thumped her hand against the floor for emphasis. “And everyone was treating him like just this—this _thing_ —that was good at sports. Like that mattered at _all_.”

“And you think that’s what people are doing to Frank?”

“I—” Karen shrugged. “Yeah, a little bit. I know it’s stupid and irrational, but it feels the same.”

“I get you.” Luke bobbed his head in a nod.

There was another pause.

“You know, I never asked you why you’re so hung up on Frank Castle. It’s not like you guys were, like…great friends or anything.” Luke shifted back and forth a little uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure if that was an insensitive question.

“I don’t know, Luke,” Karen chuckled. Two years later, and she was still not closer to answering that damn question in a satisfying way. “You ever have people come into your life at the _exact_ right time? And tell you _exactly_ what you need to hear?”

“Yeah,” Luke nodded. He was thinking of Curtis’s dad.

“Well, I think Frank was that for me, you know? I was getting to this place where I was beaten down. Where I’d forgotten how to be tough—how to stand up for myself. How to be someone that made me feel a sense of pride. And Frank…I think maybe he saw something in me? Or, at least, I assume he did. And he reminded me to be that person—the one I always wanted to be.” Karen ran a thumb across her bottom lip. “You don’t forget that. You can’t.”

“I gotcha.” Luke breathed deeply, bracing himself before standing up. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. Claire got off her shift at the hospital in ten minutes—he’d be able to pick her up if he rushed, but he’d really have to rush. He reached out to yank Karen to her feet. “Think you can drive home yourself, or do I need to call you a cab?”

“Aw, I’ll be fine, Cage.” Karen waved a dismissive hand. “I’m a big girl.”

“I know. And so does everyone who tuned into El Rey network tonight.”

“Damn straight.” Karen grinned. “Damn fucking straight.”

 

Climbing up the stairs that night felt like dragging a thousand pound horse up a hill by the ankles. Karen almost stopped on the second flight, just to sit down for a moment, but pushed on. When she rounded the corner to her apartment, she stopped dead in her tracks and damn near gasped out loud.

Sitting on her doorstep—unassuming and sweet—was a little pot of white roses.

Suddenly, all the exhaustion in her bones was gone, and she raced down the hallway to grab the small white envelope taped to the side.

 Her heart was in her throat as she ripped it open, no finesse whatsoever.

The handwriting, this time, was blunt and square. Not the childlike writing of the first letter, nor the loopy cursive she knew as Maria’s. This was Frank—all Frank.

_Karen,_

_Saw the show tonight. Good for you—let those assholes have it. Be proud of yourself._

_Frank_

Jesus Christ. Karen slapped a hand to her mouth. Jesus fucking Christ. It had been—what—four and a half hours since the show had aired? In order for him to have seen her panel, ordered flowers, written the note, and had it delivered to her doorstep...

Frank Fucking Castle was in New York City.


	4. The Return AKA "Where the Fuck Were You?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah! Uhhh....Frank's back!

“Come on, come on, come on, come on.” Jess was jumping back and forth from foot to foot, standing in the doorway of Karen’s bedroom, looking every bit the impatient child.

“Give me a second. I’m just finishing my makeup.” Karen glanced over her shoulder from her seat in front of the vanity, raising a brow.

“Oh my _god_.” Groaning, Jess took two steps into the room and flopped backward onto Karen’s bed dramatically. A stack of papers crumpled under the weight of her body, but she didn’t seem to care. “I wore a _dress_ for this, Karen. I never wear dresses. So if you don’t hurry up I’m going to bail on your ass.”

“Jesus, Jess. It’s my birthday. A little grace would be nice!” Karen gestured with the mascara wand in her hand, chuckling. “You are such a child sometimes.”

Proving Karen's point entirely, Jess rolled her eyes and pounded her fists against the comforter.

“Hey Karen! I love the roses on your windowsill—where’d you get them from?” Trish’s voice carried from the living room, and Karen almost dropped her mascara.

“Uh—I got them myself! From the little flower shop round the corner!” Karen lied. She didn’t know why—there was a part of her that wanted to keep her contact with Frank a secret. Felt like it was a precious treasure to hoard away.

“Well they’re gorgeous! Who knew you had a green thumb?” Appearing at Karen’s door in a flurry of chiffon and Chanel No 5, Trish looked a bit like a 1950s starlet in her little red cocktail dress.

“Thanks—just trying my best not to kill everything I touch,” Karen joked, shrugging. She, too, was incredibly surprised that the roses were still alive—not only the ones she’d found on her doorstep a month ago, but the flowers from two years ago, as well. The ones she’d received the day Frank had disappeared. She’d never been one for gardening—couldn’t even keep a cactus alive in her dorm room in college—but as soon as she’d brought that initial pot of flowers inside, she’d Googled “How to Keep Roses Alive Forever” and bought her first bag of Miracle-Grow. It had been a bit of a learning curve, but now she took better care of those flowers than she did herself.

Swiping on some blood red lipstick, Karen paused to glance at herself in the mirror. Not a hair out of place.

“Okay. Now I’m ready.” She stood, slipping into her five inch heels—the black velvet ones with the floral embroidery on the heel. They took her from being a relatively tall woman to a fucking Amazon, and she loved it.

“Finally!” Jess grumbled, sliding from the bed onto the floor in imitation of a human puddle, before righting herself. “Both of you take ages getting ready! I could’ve given birth and raised a child in the time it took you to get dressed.”

“God, but we’re glad you didn’t.” Karen snorted.

“You know, some of us actually take pride in our appearances, Jessica Jones.” Trish said primly, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I take pride in my appearance!” Crying out in protest, Jess swept her arm down her body.

“Uh huh, sure.” Trish raised a brow. “Is that why there’s some kind of ketchup stain on the sleeve of your dress?”

“What? There isn’t—” Holding up her arm, Jess twisted to examine her cuff. “Oh, that.” She frowned. “Pretty sure that’s BBQ sauce, actually.”

“Either way, my point has been made.” Trish turned to Karen, who was stifling laughter. “You ready to go, birthday girl?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Karen held out her arms. “Do your worst.”

Karen wasn’t one to celebrate her birthday; even as a kid, she’d never been into the big parties with streamers and decorative plates. Not that her mother was ever in much of a state to throw them, and her father sure as shit wouldn’t be caught dead baking her a cake. So she’d never grown up as a “blow out the candles and make a wish” kind of kid, and that didn’t change as she got older.

 In fact, she wasn’t really the type of person to go out to bars or clubs or concerts on normal, non-birthday nights. It was the crowds that she didn’t enjoy—the loud noises and the swirling colors and people jostling into her. It reminded her too much of her day job, elbowing her way through rowdy fans at various stadiums, Foggy trailing helplessly behind her. She spent all day wading in a sea of bodies, so she wasn’t too keen on spending her free time doing the same thing.

But Trish had been bothering her for years—ever since their days rooming together in undergrad—about celebrating her birthday the “right way.” Trying to get her to agree to a night on the town, just once, to ring in a new year of existence. And Karen had resisted, mightily, and with great force, until this year. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt like it was time. It had been a rough year (a rough few years, if she were being completely honest) and the fact that she even had people like Trish and Jess in her life was so momentous—so beautiful and wonderful and sweet—that she felt like celebrating for once. Allowing herself to revel in the people who _were_ there, rather than getting mired down in the memories of those who _weren’t_.

“Okay, so first on the agenda, we’re hitting up Cielo—do a little dancing. Let our hair down.”

“Hair’s already down, Trish.” Jess reached up to yank at her locks.

“Proverbial hair, Jess. Don’t be nitpicky.”

“Just saying.”

“Well shush.” Trish swatted Jess on the arm as they left the apartment, Karen locking up and sliding her key into her clutch.

“Are you two going to argue all night or what?” She breezed past them on the way to the stairs.

“We’ll be good, I promise.” Trish held up her hands in acquiescence.

“ _She_ promises. _I_ don’t.” Jess muttered, grinning. “But I’ll try.”

 

And she did—try, that is. All through the early evening, as they danced their way around Cielo like a trio of unhinged dandelions. Karen was actually impressed with how willing Jess was to let go and have some actual fun, for once; she even danced with a nervous-looking guy in a Slayer t-shirt, who had obviously been working up the nerve to ask her for at least an hour. It probably helped that drinks were flowing, men (and women) of all kinds buying them shots and fancy cocktails. According to Trish, this was something that happened to her whenever she went out—one of the perks of being “the hot one from CBS NY.” Everybody had their little news anchor fantasy, apparently, which meant they were more than willing to keep her liquored up, along with whoever she’d brought with her.

They stayed at Cielo for two hours, dancing to house music nobody knew the words to, pulling out ridiculous moves like the sprinkler and the electric slide. Anything to make each other laugh. It was the kind of dancing you did when you really didn’t care what you looked like—when the act of moving your body was solely for yourself. And Karen loved it.

They were sweaty and exhausted by the time midnight rolled around, and Jess began complaining that she was hungry. Luckily, Trish had planned for exactly this in her itinerary, and they beat a hasty exit to find a cheap pizza place that wasn’t packed with other refugees from the club-going crowd.

Once they had refueled, Trish caught them a cab to their next destination—a little bar in Hell’s Kitchen called Josie’s, which apparently had the best shots in all of New York City.

The bar was a little run down—a little grimy—in that way all truly marvelous bars are. A hole-in-the-wall with more personality than every place they had passed on their way there. Dark and smoky, almost like a relic from the pre-Giuliani days; Karen felt like she was stepping into the last shadowy, private corner of New York when she crossed the threshold.

“Oh my god.” Jess looked around with an open mouth. “I love it here. Someone could get shanked in that back corner and you’d never even know.” She pointed to a particularly dimly-lit section of the bar.

“It is _so_ weird that you find that appealing.” Trish sighed, shaking her head. “You two grab us some seats—I’m going to go get shots.”

As Karen followed Jess to a back booth, she couldn’t shake a strange and familiar feeling. The sensation of being watched. It ran up her spine, settling in the base of her skull. Not in an uncomfortable way, but almost reassuring; it was how she remembered feeling when she would go out onto the big kid’s playground and Kevin would keep an eye on her, making sure nobody stole her toys. Taking a seat, she cast her gaze about the bar, but everything was covered in so thick a later of shadow, she couldn’t make out any faces.

“So, how we doing so far? For your birthday? Scale of 1 to 10?” Jess suppressed a yawn, reaching out to play with the salt and pepper shakers on the table.

“I’d say you’re hitting it out of the park.” Karen pretended to think about it deeply. “A solid 10.”

“Good. Because if I dragged my ass out of the house, put on a fucking dress, and went dancing, it’s for nothing less than a solid ten.”

Karen laughed, rolling her eyes. And then her phone beeped. As it had been all evening—birthday wishes flooding in from people she barely knew. Pulling it out of her clutch, she glanced at the screen, then tensed. It was her father.

“What? Who’s that?” Jess, noticing Karen’s sudden stiffness, leaned over the get a glimpse of her phone.

“Uh, nobody.” Karen shook her head, forcing a reassuring grin. She paused, debating, before swiping the message open.

 _Happy birthday, Karen. I didn’t forget._ Her grin slipped.

“It doesn’t seem like nobody from the way you’re frowning.” Jess pursed her lips.

“What’s Karen frowning about?” Trish asked, sliding into the booth next to Jess, depositing a round of bright red shots on the table. “There’s no frowning on your birthday.”

“Nothing.”

“Her phone.”

Jess and Karen spoke at the same time. Trish looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed.

“Okaaaay.” She drew the word out to multiple syllables. Then, before Karen could react, she was reaching out to swipe the phone from her hands. Glancing down at the screen, Trish grimaced. “Oh, honey.” Her voice gentled, taking on a sympathetic little edge. “Don’t start thinking about him now; it’ll just upset you.”

“What? What’s going on?” Jess was beginning the get frustrated—she didn’t like not knowing things.

“Uh,” Karen raised a shoulder in a half-shrug, aiming for nonchalant. “It’s my dad.”

“Oh.” Jess said, then frowned. “Is that…a _bad_ thing?”

“It’s a complicated thing.” Karen ran a hand through her hair. “My dad and I…we have some shit between us. Or, I guess… _I_ have some shit with _him_. Don’t really know what his stance is on me. Haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

“Ah. So he’s an asshole?” Jess resumed playing with the salt shaker, twirling it in her fingers.

“I don’t know.” Biting her lip, Karen heaved a sigh. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Definitely.” Trish threw in, nodding. “Of the most significant kind.”

“Wasn’t always that way, though.”

“No, he was. You just didn’t realize it.” Trish corrected.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Reaching for a shot, Karen shook her head as though it could clear her mind. “Anyway,” she took a deep breath. “I don’t really want to think about it right now.”

“Well, luckily for you, we’ve got the cure for thinking: alcohol.” Jess grabbed her own shot, holding it up to the light and squinting through the glass. “What exactly is in this?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jess. It’s good.” Trish lifted her shot. “And if it’s poison, we all die together.”

“Exactly how I always hoped to go.” Karen quirked a smile, clinking her glass with theirs in a toast, then knocking it back smoothly. “Woah!” She made a face. “That tastes like Everclear and Kool-Aid.”

“I know!” Jess grinned. “I like it!”

“Another round!” Trish announced, slamming her hand on the table before getting up to order more shots.

And so they drank, and talked, and drank some more, until the thought of her father was all but banished from Karen’s mind. Until the shots settled around her brain like a pleasant fuzz of cotton.

“Oh man, I need a glass of water so badly. You stay here, I’ll be right back.” Karen slid out of the booth, stumbling slightly on her heels. She wasn’t drunk—just tipsy. Felt a bit like flying when she closed her eyes.

“Okay—get me one too!” Trish called after her.

“Weaklings,” she heard Jess muttering. “Water is for fools who can’t handle their liquor.”

Karen snickered, making her way to the bar. Josie was at the other end, dealing with a customer who appeared to have passed out next to his whiskey, so Karen leaned forward, elbows on the wood, and waited, looking at herself in the mirror mounted behind the bottles on the wall. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was a little smudged, but not bad for a night out.

“Hey, pretty thing. You alone?”

Sour breath hit Karen’s neck, and she turned her head sharply to see a clearly-inebriated man pushing up to her side. He looked out of place in the dingy bar, with his Wall Street haircut, designer suit, and thousand dollar watch. Some Upper East Side asshole who probably thought he was slumming it.

“Uh, nope. I’m here with my friends.” Karen replied, stepping to the side, putting a good foot of distance between them.

“Interesting.” The man stepped forward, following her. “Don’t see any friends around here.” He made a big show of craning his head, which bobbled a little loosely on his neck.

“Well they’re right behind you, so clearly you’re not looking hard enough.” Karen leaned back, glancing in the direction of Trish and Jess, who were too preoccupied flipping coasters to notice what was happening at the bar.

“Hmm. Or maybe they’re not really here, and you’re playing hard to get.” The man let his left arm fall, brushing against her ass as it did. Karen’s back stiffened, and she turned to him with ice in her eyes. The fog of tipsiness was completely gone—replaced with something sharp and angry. “Lucky for you, I always get what I want.”

“Don’t touch me again, asshole.” The words came out through gritted teeth, and Karen felt the tick in her jaw.

“Or what?” He snickered. “Your imaginary friends are gonna get me?” He maintained eye contact, reaching out to pinch her bottom.

Before he could react, Karen had wheeled on him, grabbing the thumb of his left hand in her right, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming his torso onto the bar. It was a wrist manipulation Luke had taught her—a Krav Maga move he had insisted everyone should know for self-defense. She’d never imagined she’d actually have to use it.

“Agh! You bitch!” The man was crying out, wriggling about desperately to get free. “You fucking cunt!”

“Watch your mouth, huh? I’ve got you in a pretty vulnerable position, you prick.”

Jess and Trish were at her side immediately, their attention finally captured by the man’s pained cries. As was the attention of most of the patrons left at Josie’s, who all seemed to gather I around her as she shoved the man roughly into the wooden surface of the bar.

“Holy shit!” Trish had her hands over her mouth. “What did he do to you?”

“Touched my ass.” Karen spat, increasing her grip on his wrist.

“Hey! Hey!” Josie was in front of them in seconds, frowning. “What’s going on here?”

“This bag of dicks was trying to touch my friend here.” Jess reached out, smacking the man upside the head as she spoke. “Without her permission.”

“Let him go,” Josie demanded, tilting her head toward Karen. “Mike’ll take care of him.” She cut her eyes to the gruff, brawny looking man making his way toward the commotion. Karen hesitated a moment before letting the drunk asshole go, shoving him away from her as she did.

“Fucking bitch!” He yelled, spitting at her as he was dragged outside by Mike. The glob of saliva landed at her feet, and Karen almost laughed. It was so pathetic.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Trish had her arm around her in seconds, looking concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” Karen waved her off, and the crowd that had gathered around them began to dissipate.

“Where the fuck did you learn that move? It was bad-fucking-ass.” Jess sounded pumped, and impressed, which Karen wasn’t entirely sure was the appropriate response to the situation.

“Uh, from that gym I’ve been going to. Where I box.” Karen ran a shaky hand through her hair, turning on her heel. As soon as she did, she stepped into a cloud of familiar scent—something dark and woodsy, with an undercurrent of chalk. All at once, every synapse in her brain fired off, lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree. The feeling of remembrance was so visceral that it literally had her shivering as it tripped down her spine.

_Frank._

That smell was Frank. She was absolutely certain. She’d never forget it—not in a million years. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d white rose it until the day she died.

“Karen? You okay?” Trish’s brow furrowed, taking in the wide-eyed look on her friend’s face.

“Yeah, I—” Karen didn’t finish her sentence; she was too busy whipping her head this way and that, looking for any sign of Frank. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

“Are you sure, because you look kinda like—” Jess spoke up, but Karen cut her off.

“No, no—I’m okay.”

Trish and Jess glanced at one another, frowning for a second, while Karen continued to crane her head and swivel around in the middle of the bar.

Nothing. Not a single glimpse of him. Her heart relate began to slow. _Fuck_. How desperate was she that she was imagining Frank’s scent? It was almost embarrassing. With a sigh, she collapsed back against the bar.

“Really, I’m fine.” Karen scrubbed a hand down her face. “I just—I thought I saw someone.”

The looked that passed between Jess and Trish said they both knew exactly who she thought she saw. She wouldn’t have reacted with such…vigor for just anybody.

“Well,” Trish sighed. “I hate to say it, but I think our night’s over.”

“Nothing like a little light sexual harassment to ruin a girl’s night out, eh?” The poison was practically dripping from Jess’s voice.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Karen nodded. “I had fun, though. Thank you both so much for doing this for me.”

“Hey,” Trish placed both hands on Karen’s shoulders; forcing her to look her square in the eye. “I would do anything for you, Kare.”

“Yeah, I guess I would, too.” Jess nudged her side, sounding faux-put out.

“I love you guys.” Karen’s smile was a little watery, as all the exhaustion and drama of the night settled over her, making her feel a little like a windup toy whose song was about done.

“Oh no. We’re getting to the sappy part of the night.” Jess raised her arm over her head, pointing and swinging it in a circling motion. “Pack it up! We’re out of here!”

 

Despite the fact that Karen collapsed onto her bed, utterly spent, at around 3 that morning, she couldn’t sleep. Her head was an absolute mess of thoughts, all because of that moment in the bar where she could have sworn she smelled Frank.

She’d taken freshman biology in undergrad—she _knew_ that there were profound ties between the olfactory senses and the hippocampus, which was why memory was so vividly sparked by scent. And she trusted her brain; if it was telling her Frank was nearby, Frank must have been nearby.

Except he wasn’t invisible, now, was he? If he was there, she would have seen him, right? He wasn’t exactly a small man; with those broad shoulders and that unbelievable build, it was difficult to blend into the crowd. So maybe her brain was wrong? Maybe she’d been projecting?

Back and forth, in the early hours of the morning, she bounced between the two ideas. Until finally, around 7AM, she fell into a deep sleep. Dreamless and dark—the kind of sleep that tastes a little like death.

When she woke up, it was 6PM on Sunday night, and her mouth felt like cotton.

“Aw fuck.” She rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. She’d told Luke she’d be in for some sparring around 5, and she’d slept through it. The gym closed at 9PM on Sunday nights, which meant she probably wouldn’t make it in time to get in a good workout. And she really, really needed to put her fists on something—too much budding, nervous energy flooding her system after last night.

Fortunately, Luke was more than willing to accommodate her.

“I’m leaving a spare key to the entire building in the power box round back. Put it back when you’re done. If my gym gets broken into because of your running-late ass, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

Karen had grinned when she’d read the text—if she had a dollar every time Luke Cage threatened her for some reason or another, she’d be a very wealthy woman.

 

It was 10 o’clock by the time Karen dragged herself to the gym, sports bra and yoga pants in the mid-July heat. The key was in the power box, just as Luke had said it would be. There was a moment of pause as Karen unlocked the gym door, and saw the light to Curtis’s old office was still on. It wasn’t like Luke to forget to hit all the lights before he left—the man was serious about conserving his electricity. But as she flicked on the main light switch, she shrugged it off, assuming he’d left it on for her. So that it wouldn’t be pitch black when she walked in.

It was strange being in the gym all alone—a little creepy. So Karen locked the door behind her, suddenly feeling cautious. She was so used to seeing the place packed—with the old Navy vets who came in on Monday nights to do some light boxing (but mostly sit around talking, reliving the glory days); the mommy kick-boxing class that met on Thursdays, filling the gym with Lululemon and talk of private daycares; and the young boxing hopefuls who came to work with Luke Cage, in the hopes of someday making it to the pros. So standing in the middle of Hoyle’s all alone was a little disconcerting.

Karen shrugged off the feeling, walking toward her favorite punching bag (the one someone had drawn a smiley face on in red Sharpie), and plugging her iPod into the Bluetooth speaker Luke had left for her. She scrolled through her playlist until she hit “AC/DC,” and tapped “Thunderstruck.”  As the opening riff howled over the speakers, she pulled out her Ringside 180” and began wrapping her hands.

Karen always lost herself the minute her fist met canvas—practicing her jabs and her footwork. It was so easy to turn her brain off and give into the feeling of letting her body go; letting her muscles stretch and bunch with every swing of her arms. If she concentrated hard enough on her breathing, she could almost feel herself exiting her body, drifting off somewhere far away, leaving bone and tendon and sinew behind. It was blissful. She’d always heard of a runner’s high, but she felt a little bit like she’d reached a boxer’s high.

She was so into her workout that she barely noticed when her playlist finished, leaving the gym completely silent, save for the huff of her breath and the thud of her fists hitting the punching bag. So of course she didn’t notice the soft sound of footsteps on the wood floors as they approached.

“You need to move your left leg back a hair.”

The scream that left Karen’s throat was frantic—panicked—as she wheeled on her feet suddenly, hands raised in a defensive stance, and stopped dead in her tracks. Her arms fell limply to her sides.

_Holy fuck._

Heart pounding, eyes wide, adrenaline flooding her veins, she found herself staring straight at Frank Castle. He was smiling almost shyly, arms crossed, as he leaned against a support beam.

There was a moment where nobody spoke, and Karen could feel her heart leaping into her throat, hard and insistent. Her mind was blank—utterly blank—and then it wasn’t; a thousand thoughts rushing in at once. Mostly “holy shit”, “what the fuck?”, “is this a dream?”, “I must be hallucinating.” And then, over the chaos of questions flooding her brain: “God damn it, how does he look so fucking good?”

And he did—look really fucking good. Even better than she’d remembered him. Wearing gray sweats, a CCR t-shirt, and a sheepish look, he was like every fantasy she’d had of him over the years come to life. If at all possible, he looked _bigger_ than before—fuller—more broad; cut; healthy. Skin lightly tanned, and that beard just a tad longer than it had been before. But the eyes were the same—dark and soulful and full of a thousand points of light that Karen couldn’t help but be drawn to.

She drank him in. Desperately. Like someone slaking an impossible thirst.

Frank, for his part, found his heart stuttering in his chest at the sight of Karen Page—solid and real and panting in front of him, sweat dripping down her neck. Seeing her in person, after two long years—it was so fucking sweet, he could almost feel it in his teeth.

How many hours had he spent, tuned into CBS NY to watch her segments, sequestered away and feeling like she was his only real tether back to the world he used to know? How often had he wished, in those isolating years up on Lake Placid, that he could just talk to her? Just once? Call her up and say hello? How many times had her voice—her smile—on the TV helped to banish the loneliness and misery of his recovery? There was no way he could put into words how much she had meant to him in those years he’d been gone, because it didn’t quite make sense to even himself. All he knew was that his entire body was vibrating in her presence. Like a livewire.

The air in the gym was thick and tense—quiet as the grave—then all of the sudden:

“What the ever-loving FUCK, Frank!” Karen whipped off one of her boxing gloves, and chucked it at his head.

“Woah—hey!” He ducked, chuckling to himself as the glove flew passed him, missing by an inch.

“Are you—” Karen sputtered, “are you _laughing_ at me!” The other glove came off, then it, too, was hurtling toward his face. He contemplated, for a moment, letting it hit him. Just to give her the satisfaction. But his instincts kicked in at the last second, and he dodged it as well.

“I’m not! I’m not!” He protested, holding up his hands. His earnestness was severely undercut by the fact that he was fully snickering at her.

“You can’t—” Karen yelled, looking around for something else to throw, eyes landing on her towel, “disappear for two years”—the towel grazed his shoulder as it flew by—“come back all of the sudden, and _laugh_ at me for being distressed!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Frank held up his hands in surrender. “I promise I am!”

Karen stopped, panting heavily, glaring at him. It took a moment, but Frank watched as the tension melted from her shoulders, and her stance relaxed. The expression on her face went soft—eyes wide and lips almost trembling.

“You miss me?” He asked. He’d meant for his voice to be teasing, but it sounded a little too sincere for that.

“Frank.” It was all she had to say. There were no other words. They stared at each other a moment, and there was a distinct feeling in the air, like anticipation.

God, Karen wanted to hug him. She _really_ fucking wanted to hug him. Which was ridiculous, because they’d never hugged one another before he disappeared, so it wasn’t like something they _did_. But that fact didn’t keep the desire to hold him in her arms from wrapping itself around her brain.

“You—” Karen started to speak, but her voice sounded a little wrecked, so she stopped. Paused. Tried again. “When did you get back to New York City?”

“Uh, officially?” Frank scratched at his jaw. “Last night. Came into the city a few times over the years. But I’m back for good now.”

“So…” Karen’s mind was working—Frank could see the gears turning as clearly as if her skull were made of glass. “Last night? At Josie’s bar…?”

“When you went Black Widow on that guy who touched your ass?” Frank was smirking (and it was such a strange feeling, being so immediately comfortable around Karen. Like no time had passed at all. He’d think about that later.)

“You were—” Karen was sputtering again, indignantly. “But how—why—you asshole! Why didn’t you say something!?”

“You were having fun with your friends. Didn’t wanna ruin that.” His shrug was entirely too dismissive.

“Frank. Fucking. Castle.” Karen’s voice was deadly, but he didn’t mind. Just hearing it was kind of great. Even if he _was_ in trouble. “You are…” Karen scrubbed a hand down her face. “The most insufferable man in the world. I am so fucking,” she paused and took a breath, “happy to see you. Damn it.”

Frank’s chest warmed. That was not how he was expecting that sentence to end.

“Yeah, you too, Page.”

“I have so many questions. Like—more questions that I have words for.”

“I figured you would.” Frank’s mouth quirked.

“So does that mean you’re gonna answer them, or…?” Karen shifted from foot to foot.

“I’ll try.” Frank glanced over his shoulder, looking toward the front door of the gym. “There’s a diner down the street. Shitty food; great coffee. Let’s talk.”

Karen waited a beat, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she was about to go sit in a diner across from Frank Fucking Castle, then nodded.

 

Frank was different. Not massively so—he was still Frank Castle—but he was different. Karen supposed it was to be expected; near-death experiences tended to alter a person, or so she’d heard.

He was still quiet, but the quiet had been changed somehow. Before, he was quiet in a way that was a little defensive. Arms out in front of himself, keeping people at bay, “don’t ask me about my life, because I won’t give you a straight answer” kind of quiet. Now, his quiet seemed more thoughtful. Contemplative. Karen couldn’t say exactly why, but there was something in his stance—the way he faced her when he spoke; leaned toward her; looked her in the eye—that felt more open.

If Frank could have glimpsed inside her mind at that moment, he would have corroborated the feeling. He _was_ more open—more willing to let people in. He’d almost lost his fucking _life_ on that night in Vinegar Hill, and then he’d spent the next two years in almost total isolation, with only Curtis, David, Maria, and the kids to talk to. He knew, intimately, what it was like to be closed off from the world. So he was a little bit tired of disconnection—of solitude. For the first time that he could remember, he _wanted_ to be tied to other people, in as many ways as he could be. For as long as he could be. And that was a terrifying thing, for someone who’d lived his whole life fighting to be left alone. But he figured Karen was a great place to start.

“So…” Karen held her coffee mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into her fingers. It still hadn’t settled on her fully—that she was sitting across from Frank Castle, who was sipping his own coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You take your coffee black?”

Frank snorted—almost spitting out his coffee—before swallowing his gulp. “That’s the question you come out of the gate with?”

“What?” Karen spread her hands defensively. “It’s called easing into things, Castle. You never come out with your power ball question right off the bat. Journalism 101.”

“Okay, sure.” Frank shook his head, crossing his arms. “Yeah, I take my coffee black.”

“Hmmm, okay.” Karen nodded. “So where were you for the past two years?”

Frank bit back a smile. “ _That’s_ how you follow up ‘so you take your coffee black’?”

“It’s the old one-two-punch. You disarm them with the innocent question, then slug them with the big one. Catch ‘em off guard.” Karen nodded to herself sagely. “It’s a classic.” Frank’s grin grew.

 _Fuck_ , it felt good to smile again. To really fucking smile. He’d had moments, over the past few years, where things had been good. When the kids had been over for a visit and Frankie did something ridiculous, or when he’d started gaining back his muscle mass, and the idea that he could fight again began to seem a little less impossible. He’d _had_ good moments. But in this second, sitting across from Karen, he felt _normal_. Like Old Frank. He’d almost forgotten that was part of Karen’s appeal—she was so fantastic about making things simple. Easy. He was Frank and she was Karen—and that was all that they needed to know.

Except that it wasn’t. Because there were some very basic things Karen needed to know, and which Frank wanted to tell her.

“So. We were answering my questions.” Karen slipped her chin into the palm of her hand. “Where were you?”

“Uh,” Frank ran his hand over his beard, scratching. “David has a place up on Lake Placid. Real middle-of-nowhere setup. Was up there with Curtis the whole time. Doing physical therapy—then training.”

Karen had so many follow up questions, she had to take a moment to choose one.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Frank’s fingers were tapping out a nervous rhythm against the table.

“Why the disappearing act? Why not stay in New York and recover at a facility? With trained therapists? Why go all the way up to Lake Placid?”

“Well, I—” Frank coughed, shifted in his seat. He wanted to answer her—he really did—but he wasn’t entirely comfortable tackling the question. So he did the best he could. “Afterwards, in the hospital? My head wasn’t on right. Being in New York—it wasn’t good for me.”

Karen paused, considering. She couldn’t tell if Frank _wanted_ her to ask for clarification, or if he would shy away as soon as she did. Watching the anxious rap of his fingers on the pale red Formica, she took a chance.

“What do you mean, your head wasn’t on right?”

“Uh,” Frank looked away, taking a deep breath. “Just…in the beginning, doctors were saying I’d never walk again, right? Never fight. And I guess I—” his eyes darted back to Karen, before landing on the table in front of him, “I had trouble thinking about a life like that. If it would be worth living.”

It was quiet, and Karen felt her heart sinking in her chest at the thought. She knew what he was trying to say.

“Wasn’t good for my kids to see that, you know?” Frank continued. “I mean, I couldn’t even hold a pen in my hand. I didn’t think—.” He broke off, shaking his head. “I just needed to go away. Curtis and David were the ones who suggested Lake Placid. It was the right choice.”

Karen could tell that Frank didn’t really want to talk about it anymore—the topic practically had him squirming where he sat. So she changed the subject; asked another one of her burning questions.

“So Curtis and David? They just…were living with you in upstate New York all this time?”

“Curtis was. David was commuting every weekend.” Frank picked up a sugar packet, began fiddling with it, keeping his hands busy. Just because he was trying to be more open these days didn’t mean it felt all that natural. “Maria and the kids, too. Were coming up to see me as often as they could. Lisa and Frankie Jr. actually spent all summer with me up there. Fishing and camping. It was nice.”

Maria and the kids. Karen had so many questions about that. But first:

“You said ‘training,’ Frank. With Curtis.” She leaned forward, frowning. “That’s what I’m confused about. How did you go from the doctors saying you’d never walk again to _this_?”  She gestured at him.

“The doctors?” Frank scoffed. “They were just wrong. Didn’t call it right. I mean, I’m walking, aren’t I?” He gestured down to himself.

“Yeah, and you—” Karen broke off, coughing slightly. “You look really good. Like fighting shape, but…” She trailed off.

“I’m better than fighting shape, Page. Better than I was before.”

“How is that possible?” Karen shook her head, blinking in confusion. Sure, the evidence was in front of her—Frank looked like he could tackle a fucking bull—but that didn’t mean it made sense.

“You know,” Frank shrugged, “just old-fashioned determination and a good trainer.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Karen flagged down the waitress who was passing by. “Ma’am, can I ask you—do you always serve bullshit here or is that just him?” Frank almost choked on his spit, as the waitress shook her head with a smile, walking away.

“Okay, okay.” Frank shifted in his seat. “Curtis and I tripled the recommended hours of physical therapy a day. Then once I was able…trained harder than I ever have in my life.”

“That sounds more accurate.” Karen bit her lip. “So you’re hoping to get back in the ring?”

“Yeah.”

“Soon?”

“As soon as I can.”

“I mean, I don’t feel like I have to say this, but I will anyway.” Karen dipped her head, holding his gaze intently. “Whatever you need, I’m here. I’m fighting your corner, Frank. Always have.”

“Yeah, I know.” His grin was soft. “I _did_ watch your segment in The Knockout Box.”

“So you know I’ll take on assholes like Harrison if you need me to. It’s going to be hard, coming back into the game. A lot of eyes on you. A lot of pressure.”

“I know.”

“A lot of people asking questions. Questions you don’t have to answer if you don’t fucking want to.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure.” Karen ran her thumb across her bottom lip. “Nothing you can’t handle.”

“Yeah.” Frank turned his head, and she caught sight, for the first time, of the hairless patch of scar tissue that ran in a line above his ear. “Holy shit,” she whispered. And before she could stop herself, she was reaching out to touch.

Frank flinched, and Karen withdrew her hand, eyes concerned.

“No, sorry.” Frank shook his head. “Habit. You can touch it.”

“You sure?” Karen’s hand hovered in stasis between them. He nodded. She cut her eyes to his own for a moment, double checking, before leaning forward to press the pads of her fingers to the scar. Frank barely suppressed a shiver at the touch.

“Jesus, Frank.” Her voice was low, a mix of something that sounded like fear, reverence, and sadness. So much reverberating sadness. “You could have—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t want to.

“Yeah.” Frank bobbed his head in a nod, and the bristle of his hair moving against her fingertips felt strange. Good strange. She withdrew, folding her hands in her lap. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence, in which the reality of what Frank had survived settled upon them, heavy. There was something he wanted to say—something he needed to say. That he’d been holding inside of him for a long time. A small, dark truth turning tight in his stomach.

“You know, uh,” he took a sip of his coffee, for something to do. Talking this way—it didn’t feel entirely comfortable. But it felt right. “Hardest part of it all wasn’t the physical stuff. It was the mental stuff.”

“The mental stuff?” Karen tilted her head, brow furrowed.

“Yeah.” Frank glanced out the window—watched the people walking by in the pale orange lamplight. Unaware of the entire worlds that were raging on inside the bodies of those they passed on the street. “Coming to terms with what I did.”

“I—” Karen broke off, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean playing big fucking hero, Kare.” Frank was fiddling with the sugar packet again. “Doing what I did. Two kids still fucking died. And all I managed to do was get myself shot; almost killed. I mean—” Frank broke off, shaking his head, clearly frustrated. “I got two kids. I got an ex-wife. They need me. And I just…didn’t even think about them. Didn’t even pause. Just got involved in shit I shouldn’t have been involved in.” He snorted, bitterly. “And everyone calling me a hero. Like I did anything at all.”

It was quiet for a moment, the low murmur of the diner—dishes clinking against one another, an old A/C unit ticking on, the elderly couple three booths away talking with bent heads—was the soundtrack to Karen’s thoughts. She wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if she should.

Frank watched her—could see the way her eyes were working, like they were tracking words across an invisible page. He could still read her like a fucking book, and the thought warmed him in a deep, soft part of his chest.

“You can say something, Kare.” His voice was low.

“It’s just…I don’t know what it’s like to almost die, Frank. So I don’t want to make you feel like I’m, I don’t know, not validating your experience.” She started out, sounding a little hesitant. Frank prodded her gently under the table, hitting her foot with his own. Her quick grin was small, and sweet. “It’s just…I’ve been a bystander to acts of cruelty before. And it’s not good. I’ve been the person who just watches—who does nothing. And I think watching cruelty, and not stepping in…that’s its own form of evil.”

Karen’s voice was distant, as was her gaze. Frank got the feeling she was more talking to hear the words out loud than to communicate, and that was fine.

“I mean, the world only changes when people do shit, y’know? When brave, good people step up to the plate when they see something awful happening. That’s the only way anything gets better. Action.” Her voice was adamant. “And yeah, you got your ass kicked this time. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t the smartest moment to step up, but you gotta give yourself some credit for being the kind of person who _would_ try to help in that situation. Do you know how fucking rare that is? How many people walk by pain and hurt and violence every day and don’t do a damn thing about it?” She was looking at him, suddenly, with those deep blue eyes. “I think the first step to being a good person is being the kind of person who takes action.”

A soft buzzing—a low rumble—was building in the base of Frank’s skull. It was a pleasant feeling; reminded him a bit of the sensation of cutting his fingernails a tad too short, so that every time he reached out to touch something, he felt it sharp on the pads of his fingers. Because feeling anything means accepting that it may come with some pain.

“I—” Frank cleared his throat, suddenly a little overwhelmed. “Yeah, I know. You’re right.”

Karen raised one shoulder, a slight movement. “Almost always am.”

Frank chuckled, then stilled, serious again. “It’s just…my _kids_. What would have happened to my kids? Took me a while to wrap my head around that.”

“But hey—” Karen reached out and placed a hand over Frank’s on the table. It was the first time she’d touched him deliberately like that, hand-to-hand, and Frank was surprised it didn’t feel strange—odd. “You’re here. You’re fine.” She squeezed gently before letting go, and it felt good to have her skin against his own, for just a moment.

“Yeah.” Frank shook his head slightly, as though clearing out his dark thoughts. “Yeah.”

Karen smiled, in that way that had her eyes almost closing.

 “Best part about being out of commission was seeing my kids.” Frank wrapped both hands around his still-warm mug.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Spent more time together in the last two years than we had in a while. Played board games, built a tree house in David’s yard. Watched a lot of sports. Watched _your_ segments, actually. A lot.”

“Really?” Karen’s grin was bright.

“Yeah. All the time. Think my kids are a little obsessed with you now.” Frank huffed a laugh. “Especially Lisa. She things you’re badass.”

“Oh no,” Karen buried her head I her hands, blushing furiously. “Stop. It’s too cute. It hurts.”

“She says she wants to do what you do when she grows up.”

“No—seriously.” Karen held out a hand. “You have to stop. I’m going to melt right here.”

“I think as far as women in the media go, she picked a good role model.” Frank’s tone was only partially-teasing, and entirely gentle.

“Oh god.” Karen’s head thumped down against the table. “I’m dead. I can’t handle the compliments.”

“Then we’ll change the subject.” There was a smile in Frank’s voice. “All my boxing info came from the news. Any behind-the-scenes gossip I should know?”

“Oh boy,” Karen lifted her head, “is there.”

 

They spent the next two hours talking boxing, Karen catching Frank up on all of the petty drama that never makes it to the screen. And occasionally, when Karen could wheedle it out of him, they spoke more about Lake Placid. Though Frank clearly began to struggle when he spoke about his years of recovery for too long. Karen understood—they had time. She had a million and one more burning questions, but nothing that needed to be answered at that exact moment. Instead, she just let herself soak in how marvelous it was to see Frank again—to be sitting across from him, breathing the same air.

It was well-past 2AM by the time the waitress informed them that the diner was closing, so they had to leave. Karen knew she would regret staying up so late the next morning when her alarm went off for work, but it was worth it. So worth it.

Talking with Frank was a revelation. It was so different than it had been before—some kind of unspoken understanding had passed between them that things had been altered. They spoke with a kind of candidness that hadn’t been there before. Karen didn’t know if it was just Frank reacting to his accident like a man looking to make a change, or if it was something else. But she was grateful for it.

He walked her to her apartment, wanting to make sure she got home safe (despite her protest that she could take care of herself; he knew she could, but he just wanted a little more time with her). The whole walk back, all Frank could think about was how alive he felt. After years of loneliness, riddled with moments of hopeless desperation, he remembered what it was like to light up in the presence of another person. To feel that electric buzz of connection. It was the same power Karen had always had over him—to make him care, to make him feel profoundly part of something bigger than himself.

And when they said goodbye at the front door to her building, in the early morning light, it also felt a little bit like saying hello.

 

 


	5. Growing Closer AKA "Will You Stop Correcting My Form?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who has suffered from anxiety and panic attacks for years, this is just my little representation of what they make me feel like. Obviously not everyone experiences panic this way!
> 
> Also--I didn't have as much time to edit this one as I wanted. Things have been....craaaazy stressful at work!
> 
> (Also Also, I am in-real-life-there-is-no-algebra on tumblr. You can follow me to hear me sometimes rant about my writing process and talk about updates!)

Karen had been right about how crazy things would get when Frank announced his return to the ring. He only waited three days after their late-night talk at the diner before deciding that it was time to enter back into the real world; putting it off would only delay the inevitable, and he had played at avoidance for far too long. But nothing could have prepared him for the reaction his sudden resurrection would bring. Almost the moment David made the call to the WBA, reporters descended upon him like a swarm of camera-ready locusts, jockeying for a little bit of time with The Punisher. Brow-beating and inveigling just to get a second alone with the suddenly-returned champion—to capture a clip, no matter how blurry or quick, for hungry boxing fans. It was the story on everyone’s lips; though most of the world appeared to have forgotten about Frank during his two years away from the spotlight, as soon as they were reminded of his existence, it seemed to be all they could talk about. Punisher fever all over again (in fact, #ThePunisherLives began trending on Twitter as soon as major news outlets started publishing information about his homecoming).

David did his best to fight the media off—Frank was refusing to speak about the shooting, his recovery, or anything else not directly related to his reutrn to the ring. He was _only_ talking about the sport. His personal life, as always, was off-limits. Even to Karen (who understood—because _of course_ she did; Frank was still working through what had happened to him, and he did not need his family put under a microscope). But that didn’t stop every network in the nation from sending a reporter his way, cajoling and begging and generally annoying the piss out of him.

And who could blame them, really? When Frank had disappeared, all those years ago, it was at the top of his game. A conqueror—the people’s champion. And then the injury? Getting shot in an attempt to protect a kid from being mugged? Well, fuck, if that wasn’t the most dramatic hero’s exit a guy could manage. And to top it all off, the curious vanishing act he’d pulled—gone without a trace, overnight, leaving not a single clue behind? It was practically the plot of a made-for-TV movie, and audiences were frothing at the mouth to know more.

Frank, however, was not going to give it to them.

Still, his name was on every news station, almost non-stop, starting the day after his “return to the real world.” There was nowhere a person could turn to escape word of Frank Castle. Google analytics showed an alarming spike in searches for his name plus the word “comeback”; the boxing forums were an absolute madhouse, conspiracy theorists and sane fans alike taking to their keyboards and losing their collective minds; even people not generally invested in the sport knew about The Punisher’s unexpected reappearance from God knows where.

Ellison was furious—absolutely _furious_ —at Karen when she informed him that she had no intention of joining the sea of reporters swarming outside Frank’s old practice gym (the fancy one in gentrified Brooklyn), busting down the doors for a glimpse of the man. She didn’t mention, of course, that they wouldn’t find him there. Before his disappearance, Frank had taken up residency at a well-established gym associated with the WBA, mostly for convenience. Now, however, his old place was a circus—a madhouse—of people hoping to catch him coming and going.

So instead, he and Curtis had relocated to Hoyle’s. People in the old neighborhood took care of their own, so despite the fact that Frank _knew_ folks on the street recognized him as he cycled in and out for his training sessions, nobody bothered him. He was a Hell’s Kitchen boy, through-and-through, and there was respect in that.

Aside from the media whirlwind, there were some other difficulties associated with Frank’s return—more technical in nature. Namely, who the fuck was he going to fight?

Traditionally, boxers are pitted against one another based on a complex, slightly shadowy ranking system negotiated by a cabal of ABC organizations, managers, and promoters. The goal being the creation of pairings that will earn the most revenue—lead to the most intense fights. Which meant matching boxers who were fairly close in skill.

But where was Frank Castle on the ranking system? Was he still at the top? Did his status pre-disappearance hold? Or did he have to fight his way up through the ranks again, starting at ground zero?

 Nobody wanted to see Frank Castle take on some baby face who had just _barely_ been bumped to the pros—it wouldn’t be a contest. The Punisher fighting a palooka would be like pitting a lion against a tick; no drama in that match-up.

 But would it be fair to throw him up with boxers at the top of their game, who had earned their spot through years of blood and guts on the canvas? To allow him the chance to unseat a top fighter after having been gone for so long? None of the high-ranking boxers were volunteering to go head-to-head with Frank, for fear of stepping on someone else’s toes.

So what was Frank supposed to do? Who was he supposed to fight?

It was a perplexing question—one which nobody had a real answer to—so Frank’s career was kind of in stasis for a moment. Until somebody could figure out where he fit into the world he’d left behind two years ago. A world which had been reformed around his absence.

In the meantime, he trained—hard—all day long. Essentially taking up residence in Hoyle’s Gym like it was a second home. Spending every waking hour on the canvas, pushing his body past the point of exhaustion. He didn’t mind it, though. In fact, the situation was working out quite nicely; Frank wasn’t entirely ready to jump back into the real world after being isolated in recovery for so long, so the stall in his career gave him a chance to adjust slowly. He could hide away in the gym for just a little bit longer, edging his way back into some semblance of comfort in the limelight.

Frank practically living at Hoyle’s was great for Karen, too, because it meant she got to see him all the time. She continued with her schedule of going to the gym three nights a week, mostly to work with Luke (who, despite Curtis’s return, was still being kept on as manager), and let off steam from her days arguing with Ellison.

It was so strange to go from absolutely no Frank for two solid years, to seeing Frank multiple times a week. The whole thing was a bit of a shock to Karen’s system. For a while, every time she walked into the gym and saw him in the back ring sparring with Curtis, she had to remind herself that she wasn’t dreaming. That he really _was_ back—for good.

She’d expected there to be more of a transition—had mentally prepared herself for things to be a bit bumpy at the beginning. During the two years of Frank’s absence, she’d often fantasized about what it would be like when he finally returned. Visualized it in intense detail—the moment she’d glance up from her workout with Luke to the sight of Frank passing by the front windows of the gym, the prodigal hero returned. Imagined the feeling of seeing him in living flesh after so long—of breathing his air again—and the aftermath that would follow his resurfacing. In her head, their hypothetical reunion had gone differently. She had anticipated uncomfortable silences and clumsy attempts at conversation. An awkward period in which they had to relearn how to talk to one another—to be around one another. After all, she hadn’t spoken to the man in two years. And on top of that, he had experienced a near-fatal injury, which he’d followed up by living in almost utter isolation for much longer than a person should. That kind of thing changes a person. By all accounts, his sudden reappearance into her life should have been more bumbling and stilted than it was. Filled with tension and uncertainty.

But that wasn’t the case. Instead, it was exactly like Karen had explained to Foggy that night at the bar—there are some people who enter your life and just _fit_. No matter how long you go without speaking to them, it’s like picking up right where you left off when you do. Karen and Frank were still Karen and Frank; beyond time, beyond circumstance, beyond all logic. She still had the uncanny ability to set him at ease, and he still made her feel like she could conquer the world.

Of course, some things were different. Frank had changed in a million little ways. There was that recent bent toward openness she’d noticed that first night they’d spent talking together at the diner. Almost like Frank was making an active decision to connect—to let her get to know him. Was trying to pry open the parts of himself that had rusted over from disuse and neglect.

And aside from that, there was a new kind of thoughtfulness about him; an occasional sullenness. Moments where he would sink into a quiet tinged with something lonely, and Karen would know he was thinking about his years on Lake Placid. About how he’d almost lost his life.

He had his good days and his bad days—days where he almost seemed like pre-shooting Frank, all jokes and cockiness and easy smiles; but also days where he struggled to feel like much of a person at all. Karen and Curtis and David were there for him through it all, keeping him focused on his training and reminding him to hold his head above water. He had battles still to face.

And Karen didn’t mind. Sad Frank or Happy Frank, she was just glad to have him back in her life. Glad that she got to spend time in his presence, after so long without it. In the process, however, she sometimes found herself with more Frank Castle on her hands than she could handle.

 

“On your toes! On your toes!” Frank leaned against the practice ring, arms crossed atop the canvas, eyes glued to Karen. She was sparring with Luke, though he was clearly holding back with her. Letting her get a few swings Frank was positive he could dodge. “Don’t plant your feet like that, Kare!”

She did her best to ignore him, focusing instead on reading Luke’s body language, trying to track his next swing before he took it. The hints were subtle, especially because Luke was such a skilled boxer, but they were there. She just had to learn to read them quickly and accurately.

“No—no! You’re loading your jab before you take it! You’re telegraphing your moves, Page!”

Karen shook her head, still ignoring Frank, and parried a blow. They’d been at it for about an hour, and she was beginning to flag. In a haymaker of a move, she decided to take a risk and throw in something Luke wouldn’t expect—a bolo punch. The hit landed, but it wasn’t quite right, glancing off of him rather than making a full impact. She was off-balance.

“Come on, Karen! What are you doing!?”

“Oh my god!” Stepping away from Luke, Karen wheeled around to face Frank, yanking off her headgear. “Will you stop correcting my form?”

“Sure. When it stops needing correcting.” Frank grinned up at her as she stomped to the side of the ring, leaning against the ropes to glare at him imperiously. She was breathing hard, sweat trickling down the side of her face. With her hair flying out of its ponytail and her chest heaving from exertion, she looked like a fucking warrior. _Glorious_.

“Don’t you have training to do, Castle?” She squinted as a bead of sweat dripped dangerously close to her eye. “Maybe some big medicine ball to throw around? Or—oh—you could do that salmon ladder thing you love so much!” (That _she_ loved so much.)

“Nope. Done with training for the day.” He shook his head, popping his gum for emphasis. “You know, most people would kill to have me correcting their boxing form for them.”

“Yeah, well, I just want to kill _you_.” Karen smiled sweetly, and Frank ran a hand across his chin to hide his responding grin.

“We done for the evening?” Luke jogged over, removing his boxing gloves and giving Frank daps through the ropes.

“I guess so.” Karen shrugged. “I can’t work with this guy in my ear all the time.” She ripped off one of her own gloves, chucking it at Frank’s head. At such close range, it landed with a thud, then bounced off, falling to the floor. He blinked up at her, unamused. If he had a dollar for every time she threw one of those things at him.

“Well I’ve gotta hit the showers.” Luke stretched his arms above his head. “Got a hot date tonight.”

“Oooooh,” Karen did her best impression of a middle school girl on the playground. “With Claaaaaaire?”

“Yep.” Crouching onto the canvas, Luke slipped under the ropes. “Don’t know why we have to go through this every time I have a date. It’s _always_ with Claire.” He began to walk away, shaking his head.

“Hey! Why haven’t you brought her around here yet?” She called to his back. “I want to meet her!”

“Because my clients are children!” Luke responded, without turning around. “And they would embarrass me!”

Karen huffed, ripping off her other glove and throwing it at _his_ head. She missed, by a wide margin. Luke didn’t even flinch as it landed limply a few feet to his left.

“You know that’s not what those things are for, right?” Frank asked, bending down to retrieve the glove at his feet. It was significantly smaller than any of his, which was just a little bit adorable. “These aren’t meant to be projectiles.”

“They are if you try hard enough.”

“And if you have good aim. Which,” Frank gave her a look, “you don’t.”

“Oh Jesus.” Karen sat on the canvas with a graceless plop, her legs dangling over the side. She turned to look at Frank, whose face was now level to her own. “You got anything else to criticize here?” She gestured to herself.

Frank took a long, perusing look (which set Karen’s blood blazing hot in her veins), then smirked up at her. “Nah.”

“Good. Because I am just,” she breathed out a long stream of air, “fucking wrecked.”

Frank frowned. “Ellison still giving you a hard time at work?”

“Yeah.”  Seeing the guilty look flash across his face, Karen leaned over, nudging his shoulder. “Hey. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Kiddie stuff; assigning me little fluff pieces while he throws his tantrum. He’ll get over it soon.”

It had been three weeks since Frank Castle had resurfaced, and Karen still refused to report a single piece of information about him that wasn’t strictly related to the sport. It was killing Ellison, who knew that they had some kind of friendship. She kept insisting, adamantly, that she wasn’t going to take advantage of that friendship, no matter how hard Ellison pushed. In retaliation, he’d been throwing shitty assignments her way. It was temporary, and he’d eventually lose steam and put her back on the big girl beat, but it was annoying while it lasted.

“Thanks, Kare.” Frank nudged her back. “Appreciate it.”

“You don’t have the thank me.” Karen’s voice was soft, and she collapsed back onto the canvas to stare up at the ceiling. “Still no word about who you’re going to fight in your comeback match?”

“No.” Frank scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing. “For a bunch of people so eager to put my face all over the TV, they sure aren’t working fast to get me in the ring.”

“Eh, it’ll all work out.” Karen wiped some sweat from her neck, and Frank tracked the move intently. “I’m sure it will.” (In fact, Karen had a little something in her back pocket—an idea she’d been brewing up for a few days—that wasn’t quite ready to make it out in to the world yet.)

“Yeah, I know.” Looking around the gym, which was beginning to empty out, Frank pulled away from the canvas. “Dinner?”

“Yep.” Karen popped back up. “Just let me shower really quickly.” She slid underneath the ropes, her side brushing Frank’s in just the slightest as she went. She had to contract all the muscles in her body very quickly to keep the shiver down.

“You know you don’t _have_ to shower, right?” Frank watched the swing of her ponytail as she breezed past him, toward the lockers.

“I am _not_ sitting down to eat looking like a grimy, sweaty beast.”

He wanted to tell her that a “beast” was the last thing he’d call her. Magnificent, maybe. Stunning; fierce; a killer. But not a beast. Instead, he just shook his head. “The diner’s already grimy enough. A little sweat from you wouldn’t hurt it.”

“Ew.” Karen grimaced at him over her shoulder. “Did you just compare me to the diner?”

“No, I—” Frank gave up defending himself, as she had already disappeared through the locker room door.

 

Karen didn’t know how it had happened, exactly, only that it _had_ happened. At some point in the weeks following Frank’s return, they’d fallen into a routine of getting dinner together at the shitty diner down the road—the one they’d eaten at the first night he’d revealed himself to her. The food was…not great. But it _was_ edible, and Karen always found herself in desperate need of protein at the end of her workouts.

It had started with her heading over by herself, searching urgently for something to refuel her system following a few rounds in the ring with Luke. And the diner was the closest thing around that served anything even remotely healthy. She would settle in a back booth, order the meatloaf, and decompress while she ate. And then one evening, Frank had caught her walking down the block by herself, and insisted that he escort her; he didn’t like the idea of her wandering around Hell’s Kitchen alone, in the dark. That, of course, led to him grabbing a bite with her, marveling at her ability to tuck away an entire serving of meatloaf with gusto.

And it just became a habit—getting dinner together three nights a week after Karen’s sessions with Luke. It was nice, Frank thought, having something to look forward to at the end of the day—someone to talk to who just _got_ him.

And they talked a lot. About boxing, of course, but about other things, too. Karen’s work, for example, and the kind of casual, every day sexism she bumped up against just doing her job. It astounded Frank, how tough a woman had to be to survive in a male-dominated field; just taking a relentless stream of bullshit and turning it into something good.

At first, all he’d really done was listen—he’d sit there for an hour or two and let Karen talk, sharing gossip about people named Jess and Trish (whom he’d never met), or complaining about the latest slight she’d suffered at the hands of Brad Whittington. She was a fantastic storyteller—all flailing arms and vivid descriptions and four-letter words flying across the table. He could listen to her go on all day. Listening was easy, after all. He had a lot of practice in that.

But eventually Karen had started prodding at him to share as well. To talk about anything—literally _anything_ he wanted. Because despite Frank’s recent dedication to being open, he wasn’t exactly good at it. He’d gone so long without letting people in that it had become somewhat of a habit. The whole concept of “getting to know someone” was just foreign; the last time he’d actively attempted to befriend a new person had been with Curtis. And that was an entire lifetime ago.

But Karen was good at it— _great_ at it—and she more or less led him by the hand. She knew all the right questions to ask, the right topics to bring up, to put him utterly at ease. She made opening up easy, less terrifying, because she was a safe place. In some ways, Frank had always known she would be. A person like Karen—someone who had to fight tooth and nail for everything she had been given; who knew what it was like to be an outsider and a misfit—understood exactly how much empathy and kindness a human needed to thrive. And she gave it all away, all of her compassion and caring, for free. For _him_.

The least he could do was _try._ Make an honest effort to let her get to know him as much as she wanted to. And she really, _really_ wanted to know him—had a million and one questions stored up that she could pull out at any moment.

Sometimes he talked about his teen years—shared a few stories here and there about the kind of trouble he used to get into (and how David was almost constantly in the background, during every one of his schemes as a kid, telling him not to do it). And sometimes he talked about his time on Lake Placid, though not as often, because it wasn’t exactly a happy, sunshine-y period of his life. Mostly, though, he talked about his kids. They were safe territory. Telling stories about Lisa getting kicked off of the playground in elementary school for teaching the other kids some of Dad’s boxing moves. Or sharing Frankie Jr.’s latest triumph—he’d asked a girl to the 6th grade dance and she’d actually said yes. The kid was so excited, he’d come home immediately to start picking out tuxes online.

And the more he talked, the easier it became. The loneliness of his recovery at Lake Placid—the deep and abiding feeling of isolation that he’d dealt with for years—it just kind of fell away when he was sitting across from Karen. She was always so present—so invested in what he had to say. And at that exact moment, he was talking about his son.

 

“So he’s never wanted to learn to box?” Karen licked mashed potatoes off of the back of her spoon. “Not even once?”

“Nah.” Frank shook his head, sipping his sweet tea. “Frankie’s a sensitive kid. He tries to hide it, y’know. Like little boys do. Getting all mad and huffy and pretending to be tough, but he’s a softie at heart. Don’t think he’d like hitting anything.”

“Man, my brother was not that way. At all. He used to have this little inflatable Bobo the Clown punching toy, and he’d go to town on it.”

“Frankie’s not like that. He doesn’t even like it when we kill bugs in the house. Always wants the non-violent solution.”

“Hmm,” Karen nodded. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” Frank quirked a grin. “It is.” He stabbed his fork into his plate of biscuits and gravy. “Lisa on the other hand? She’s gonna be a scrapper.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Frank’s face looked distant for a moment, as though he were remembering something, then he chuckled. “When they were little—I mean real little—Lisa was 7 and Frankie was 5, we went to a friend’s house for a play date. One of the kids started picking on Frankie, and Lisa wasn’t having it. She grabbed a toy firetruck and chucked it right at this kid’s head.” There was a pause, and Frank’s grin split wide. “Reminds me of someone else I know, actually. Throwing things at people’s heads for sport.”

“Hey!” Karen tutted. “I don’t do it for _sport_. I do it because it’s the only way to get you to listen to me!”

“Uh huh,” Frank looked skeptical. “Sure.”

Karen was contemplating balling up her napkin and hurling it at him, just to be a brat, when her phone dinged. It was a text she’d been waiting on all day.

“Hold on a sec.” Holding up a finger, she shot Frank a nervous smile and dug her phone from her pocket. He watched as she swiped open the message, her eyes flying across the words before a beaming smile lit up her face. “Something good?” Frank asked.

“Oh man.” Karen looked up at him, eyes bright. “You don’t even know.” Her thumbs set to tapping quickly, typing out a response, before she put her phone down on the table. “I have some news. And I think its great news for you, but it also might make you upset.” She bit her lip, suddenly a little nervous. “And I’m not sure which one is more likely at this moment.”

“Jesus, Kare,” Frank let out a long puff of air, deflating against the back of the booth. “That’s not a great way to start a conversation.”

“I know, I know, but…” Karen looked like she was ready to burst. “If it’s good news, then it’s _really_ good news.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.” Frank spread his arms, as if preparing himself to receive anything.

“So when I was in undergrad, at Columbia, I met this guy, Danny Rand.” Karen was leaning forward suddenly, her words quick and intense. It was the way she spoke, Frank noticed, when she was amping herself up for something. “He was a real asshole—I absolutely hated him. He went to Shanghai his freshman year on a two month study abroad program, and came back obsessed with Eastern culture, while also not being particularly knowledgeable about it. Really insufferable. But the important thing to know is that he never _knew_ I hated him, right? I was very good at hiding it. In fact, he still sends me a Christmas card every year.”

“Okay…” Frank’s brow furrowed. He was trying to follow—to see where how any of this related to him.

“Anyway, he ended up graduating with a degree in marketing, which was what we all knew he was going to end up doing anyway. I mean, he changed his major to Eastern Studies at one point, but his father shut that down really quickly, because—”

“Karen.” Frank cut her off. “Get to the point.” He had a feeling she was stalling.

“You’re right, you’re right.”  She took a deep breath. “Turns out, he’s working on the publicity team for Matthew Murdock.” She paused for emphasis, and all of the sudden Frank was paying much more attention.

 In all of his time away in recovery, Murdock was the fighter he’d followed most intensely, watching his rise through the ranks with singular focus. The guy was a different breed of boxer—he fought in a style Frank had never seen before. Naturally, he and Curtis had taped all of Murdock’s matches and made it their mission to study exactly what made him such an outstanding stylist in the ring. And now Karen was talking about him, and Frank had just the barest inkling of an idea as to where the conversation was going.

“So I called up Danny the other day and sent him David’s number.” Karen winced a little, as though preparing for some burst of anger. “I know it wasn’t my place, and I probably should have consulted you before doing it, but it was kind of a now-or-never thing, because Murdock’s been saying he’s going to take a break from the ring for a while now, and I just wasn’t sure if you’d ever get the chance again, so—”

“Karen, hey.” Frank reached out to cover her hand with his own. “I’m not mad. Keep going.”

“Well, I was talking you up to Danny, saying that if you and Murdock went head to head in your comeback match, the event would make enough money for everyone on Team Murdock _and_ Team Castle to retire young. And, you know, because Murdock’s always been a bit of an outsider in the sport he shouldn’t really care too much about stepping on anyone’s toes—he should just do what’s going to be best for him. His image; his brand. Danny sounded interested, and said he was going to talk to his guys and give David a call tonight.” Karen tilted her head toward her phone. “That was Danny. He just hung up with David…if _you’re_ in, _they’re_ in.”

Frank blinked, staring at Karen for a moment, uncomprehendingly. He cleared his throat. “Are you—why would you ever think that would upset me?”

“Because, you know, I suppose I have a habit of sticking my nose into places where it doesn’t belong? And going to Danny Rand without consulting you or David was kind of a risky move.” Karen lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “So you’re…happy?”

“Jesus, Kare.” Frank laughed. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.” He shook his head, grinning. “Fuck.”

He was going to fight Matthew Murdock. It was the king of all gets; it was the match-up beyond his wildest hopes.

“Karen.” Frank didn’t know what to say. “Who the fuck are you?” It was the hint of awe in his voice that touched her.

“You know.” Karen shrugged. “Your guardian angel. Like you were for me—the day we met.”

She said it so casually—as if it wasn’t the most moving thing one human being could say to another. Before Frank could respond, his phone was ringing. And he knew without looking that it was David.

“I, uh—” Frank dug around in his pocket. “I’m gonna take this outside. It’ll just be a moment.” He slid from the booth, giving her one last, meaningful look as he left.

Karen let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding; she’d been so nervous about the Murdock thing. She was a woman well aware of her flaws, one of them being the tendency to get involved in things that were, ostensibly, none of her damn business. But it had been difficult watching Frank just sit there, waiting, unsure of what the future would hold. He’d had enough uncertainty in his life, she figured. So when Danny’s name had popped up on her Facebook feed, she’d decided to take a chance. Luckily, it had paid off.

“Your boyfriend gonna want any more sweet tea, honey?” The waitress’s question jolted Karen from her thoughts.

“Oh, uh, he’s not my boyfriend.”

Raising one perfectly-plucked eyebrow, the waitress pursed her lips, looking entirely unconvinced. “Okay. Well is your not-boyfriend gonna want any more sweet tea?”

“No. I think we’re almost done.” Karen shook her head. The waitress stared out the window for a moment, watching Frank pace back and forth on the sidewalk as he spoke into his phone. She fanned herself with one hand, then looked at Karen.

“You’re crazy if you’re not getting you some of that.” She winked, before walking away, leaving Karen stunned.

Frank was chuckling to himself when he came back into the diner and sat down. “David’s having an aneurysm. He says thank you, by the way. I do, too.”

“Aw shucks.” Karen waved away the gratitude.

“It’s not a done deal yet, but the only way this fight isn’t going down is if one of us backs out.”

“Which isn’t going to happen.”

“Right. Not gonna happen.” Frank shook his head. “So we’ve got four months to prepare for this thing. It’s not as much time as I would have liked, but it’ll do.”

“Four months? We better get to talking strategy.” Karen leaned forward, eyebrow raised.

“Wouldn’t that be against some kind of professional ethics—you helping me out?” Frank raised his own brow; a challenge.

“Well,” Karen pretended to think for a moment. “I’ve got to be honest, Frank. I’ve never been that great at following the rules.”

 

It was well-past dark by the time they left the diner, stepping out into the close, thick air of a balmy city night. Just as Karen was hoisting her purse over her shoulder, her phone beeped again. Assuming that it was Danny with more details, she pulled it out, swiping open the message.

 She had been smiling—about a shitty joke Frank had made—but as soon as she read the text, her face fell.

_Karen. I’m done getting your voicemail. I need Kevin’s truck gone ASAP. I will bring it to the dump if you don’t call me._

“Fuck.” Karen’s sharp intake of breath had Frank turning to her in concern almost instantly.

It was the tenth text from her father in as many days, all of which she had ignored. He’d left her a few voicemails, as well, none of which she’d listened to. She knew it was ridiculous and petty and childish, but every time she left him on “read” without replying felt like a minor victory.

But then he’d brought Kevin’s name into it, and suddenly things were serious.

 _Kevin’s truck?_ What was he talking about?

Ignoring Frank’s worried look, Karen scrolled through her voicemail messages until she found one from earlier that day. He’d called her at work, in the middle of a meeting, and she’d sent him to her inbox. Now, she raised the phone to her ear.

“Karen. It’s your father.” Hearing him speak felt a bit like cracking her chest open—letting an old, painful ghost crawl back into her skin. These days, she and her father only communicated through the rare and begrudging text message. She’d forgotten how country his accent sounded. Forgotten how quickly he could have her breaking apart with his voice in her ear. Her heart began to hammer heavily against her ribcage, and her breathing caught in her throat.

It had been a long, long time since she’d had a panic attack—not since her senior year of college, the last time she’d seen her father in person—but in that moment, outside the diner, she could feel one coming on. And it was not welcome.

Instantly, her gut filled with a confusing range of emotions: hatred, sadness, guilt, righteous indignation. A wave of rage so overwhelming, it threatened to drown her where she stood. And underneath it all, the tiniest current of love. That was the maddening thing about her relationship with her father—no matter how fucked up it was; no matter how cruel a man he proved himself to be, Karen still loved him. Beyond all reason, and without really wanting to, she did. She couldn’t help it; though _god damn it_ , did she try.

“I’ve called you several times, but you insist on playing this fucking game with me. I’m selling the house and moving into an apartment. Kevin’s piece of shit is still in the garage. I need to get rid of it. Either you take it or it’s trash.”

That was all he said. No “goodbye,” no “call me back.” He just hung up.

Karen noticed, in some distant part of her brain, that her hands were trembling. Just slightly. That her heart had gone from a heavy hammer to a rapid, staccato rhythm in her chest; that her vision was beginning to blur around the edges. All of the happiness and fullness she’d been feeling earlier in the diner with Frank left her. Like blood trickling from a wounded body. And in its place there was a deep, echoing kind of sorrow. An ancient sorrow—one with which her heart was well-acquainted.

Karen had learned, long ago, that there were areas of her life that hurt too much to think about—that felt like bruises every time her brain brushed up against them. Places that she tried not to go; memories she avoided with everything in her, because they had the power to topple. To tear their way through her walls of well-adjusted self-protection, and make her feel like her insides were all wrong.

Kevin and her father. Those where two such areas. Both of which were now at the forefront of her mind.

She slowed her breathing; clenched her fists. Tried to remember what that therapist in college had said about fighting off these little attacks. Her heart rate decelerated, just a touch. Enough to make her feel sane again.

“Karen?” Frank’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present. He was looking beyond concerned—borderline panicked. She’d been standing there, breathing heavily and practically vibrating, for a full minute. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I—” she started, but then stopped. No. No she wasn’t okay. Lying about it had become such a habit, the words had almost slipped out of their own volition. But fuck the lies. She was too tired to tell them. “No, I’m not.”

“What’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Do you need to sit down?”

“No. It was my dad.” Karen wasn’t sure how to explain what was going on. There were too many years of damage dragging their way through her mind for her to concentrate. “He left me a message.”

“Is he okay? Has there been an accident? Do you need to call him back?”

“No, no. He’s fine.” Karen shook her head. Frank just kept staring at her—thoroughly confused. None of this was making sense to him, she knew. He probably thought she was a crazy person. “I just, uh…” she grappled for something to say to clarify the situation, and settled for a helpless noise and a shrug.

Frank was a father, and he was used to dealing with this kind of thing—big emotions too difficult to explain. When Lisa was younger, she used to have these little fits of sadness or anger or fear, but didn’t yet have the words to explain them. Frank had gotten quite adept at figuring out what was wrong, and he used that skill now.

“You’re upset.” He dipped his head until she raised her eyes to his own. “Why?”

“I guess because…because I had to hear his voice. Because he can still make me feel this way. After all these fucking years.” Karen sounded very far away when she spoke, like she wasn’t fully aware of the words leaving her mouth.

“Make you feel what way?” Frank, all soulful brown eyes and gentle voice, held her gaze.

“Just—” Karen spread her arms wide, stuttered for a moment, then gave up. A frustrated sound leaked from her throat.

Frank watched her warily, unsure. She was clearly feeling some not insignificant amount of distress. He just wasn’t sure what to do to help her, especially when he couldn’t quite understand the cause. Glancing around, he cast about in his mind for something—anything—that might bring some comfort.

He knew this neighborhood—like the back of his hand. And if he recalled correctly, which he did, there was a park a few blocks south of the diner.

“Hey, Kare.” He waited until she turned to look at him. “Let’s take a walk, huh? I know a place nearby we can sit—a little garden. That sound okay?”

“Uh,” Karen ran a hand through her hair. When she was fighting off a panic attack, decision-making was difficult, so she was glad to follow Frank’s lead. “Yeah. Yes. Thanks.”

He took her by the elbow, and began steering her down the street. She followed, a little limp in his grasp. All at once, she was exhausted—emptied.

It was quiet for a long time—as quiet as New York City can be on a Thursday night. People yelling to each other from across the street; taxis flying down the road; pedestrians bustling about, walking with purpose on slowly-thinning sidewalks.

But Frank just let it be quiet. Walked next to Karen, hands shoved deep in his pockets, not saying a word. Giving her some space to think.

The night air was good—it helped to clear her head a bit. Helped settle the dust that her father’s voicemail had kicked up, just a little. Breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, Karen focused on slowing her heart rate; on gaining some equanimity. Letting herself come down from the panicked adrenaline. And it worked, enough to have her feeling suddenly very sheepish for the way she had reacted. Like some dramatic little teenager throwing a tantrum on the sidewalk. It was embarrassing.

They’d turned the corner onto a new block before Karen spoke.

“Sorry about that, Frank.” She looked straight ahead, eyes on the horizon as it stretched in the distance. “I’m not great at handling things that have to do with my father.”

“It’s alright.” Frank darted his eyes to her quickly, seeing her face a mess of guilt and confusion. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you want to talk about it?” Frank nudged her side gently. “How do you not know if you want to talk about it?”

“Uh,” Karen shrugged. “I guess…I _do_. But I don’t know how? Or, maybe…I don’t know if I want to talk about it with _you_?”

Frank tried not to be offended, but Karen could read his expression too well.

“Not like that,” she held up her hands defensively. “Just that, well, it’s a _lot_. And I don’t want to burden you with my shit. You don’t know what you’re asking—to hear about my father.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to hear it.” Frank grumbled. “I ain’t _that_ nice.”

Karen cracked a smile, and it was a small and beautiful victory.

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.”

The quiet returned, but not like a knife in the night. Like an old and comforting friend. They turned onto another street—one less crowded.

“Uh, my relationship with my dad...it’s complicated.” Karen started, and almost wanted to laugh at how absurd the euphemism was. She’s just gotten used to saying it—to using that word: “complicated.” When really, she meant something else. Something that she wasn’t sure had a name.

“I kind of guessed that.” Frank’s voice was gentle. Probing.

“Yeah.” Karen shook her head. She didn’t even know where to begin—how did she tell a story she didn’t quite understand herself? “Do you remember a lifetime ago, when I told you about how my dad was the one who got me into boxing? How he used to fight when he was in college?”

“Course I do.” It was sweet—not “yes,” or “uh huh,” but “ _of course_ I do.” As if she were crazy for thinking he wouldn’t.

“I used to idolize my dad when I was a kid. Me and Kevin both—just looked up to the guy like he was a god.” She tilted her head back, eyes staring into dark sky. “He was this real tough, man’s man. Charismatic and larger than life. Nobody stronger than him or quicker than him or smarter than him. Or, at least, that’s what we grew up thinking. He always had a crazy story to tell about him and his buddies from the ‘good old days,’ or a crude joke that my brother and I would repeat for ages afterwards. I mean, this man was my whole world.”

“You were a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah.” Karen’s head bobbed. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it. I mean, every word out of Dad’s mouth was like gold for me. And Kevin, too. He kind of built himself up, in our house, as this infallible, mythical figure. Who could just do no wrong.” There was a sharp edge to her tone that cut the stillness of the air between them. Acidic and harsh.

She paused as an elderly lady passed by, nodding good night to them.

“So what happened? To, uh, ‘complicate’ things?” Frank asked, as soon as they were alone again.

“Uh, it’s hard to explain.” Karen sighed. “When you’re a kid, your whole world is distorted, right? Everything you know is what you learned from your parents—every way you have of understanding things is filtered through them, right?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Frank was walking close to her—so close that his jacket brushed her own. It was strangely comforting; that small touch.

“Well there was my mom, right? And she was _nothing_ like my dad. When I think of her, I see her as this frail, ghost-like creature, floating around the house in a bath robe with just…this haunted look in her eye.” She waved a hand in front of her face for emphasis. “She was quiet and meek and subservient. Everything my dad had raised my brother and I to despise. This—this… _nothing_ of a person.” Karen’s voice caught a little. “Or, at least, that’s what we thought when we were kids. She just…might as well not have existed, for all we cared about her. Why would we, when our dad was this great, big hero?”

There was the bitterness—the spite. She heard it in her own voice. But it didn’t sound wrong—it didn’t sound unwarranted. It sounded true. So she kept talking.

“Like I said—when you’re a kid, your reality gets distorted. You don’t really pick up on certain things, because they’re just _normal_ to you. Like the way my father would berate my mother all the time. The way he would call her weak—feeble—whenever she complained that she wasn’t feeling well. How he’d laugh at her when she would cry. How he never let her leave the house without him by her side. And got angry whenever she spoke to another man, even just one of my friend’s dads.” Karen reached up, shoving the heels of her hands into her eyes sockets, and took a deep breath. When her hands fell limply back at her sides, she continued. “These things, I mean, they were _normal_. We were kids; we didn’t know any better. He never hit her or anything, so we didn’t know.” She stared down at her feet. “He treated her like some maid—some object built for his needs. Like she was subhuman. And my brother and I…I mean, we learned from our dad.”

“Jesus.” Frank felt his heart sinking. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah, I know. I know.” Karen felt her hands balling up at her sides. “But we were kids. We didn’t know any better. He’d practically indoctrinated us from the crib to see him as this all-knowing figure. Wasn’t until I left the house after high school—got to college, that it all hit me. That I realized what kind of a man my father really was. The abuse he put my mother through. But you know, it was all too little too late at that point.”

They turned onto another street, and suddenly found themselves at the opening of the DeWitt Clinton Park. Karen pulled up short.

“Wow. How did I not know about this place?”

It took Frank a moment to track the change in subject—his mind was so focused on Karen’s story. Looking up, he eyed the little plot of land, lush with trees reaching spindly branches into the sky. It was a lot like he remembered it being when he was a kid, minus the hypodermic needles and the homeless encampment—a verdant, green spot in the middle of the smoggy, industrial neighborhood. At this time of year, the perennial garden was in full bloom, colorful flowers budding into the night, leaving the heavy scent of pollen and honey in the air.

“Uh, not a lot of family spaces in Hell’s Kitchen.” Frank shrugged, swinging open the black, wrought iron gate that enclosed the whole space, holding it open for Karen to walk past. “This was actually the first community garden in all of New York City. But people don’t really know that, because it was…really rough for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” Frank steered her toward the entrance of the garden. “When I was a kid, this place was pretty much off-limits. Ground-zero for junkies and coke heads. Then there was that whole city-wide movement to clean up the parks.”

“It’s lovely now,” Karen reached out to run her fingers along a budding of knapweed.

“Yeah, it is.” There was a little bench parked in the middle of the community garden, surrounded by rock trails for the neighborhood children. They sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the quiet. For just a moment.

“So what happened to your mother?” Frank’s voice was low—almost a murmur. Something about the conversation felt like it called for it.

“You don’t—” Karen broke off, thinking for a moment. “You know you don’t have to listen to all of this. To be polite or anything. You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Frank squinted up at the lamplight filtering through the trees. “I want to.”

“Why?”

It was a question Frank wasn’t sure how to answer. What was it, really, that drove _any_ human to crave the kind of connection that only comes through the mutual sharing of a burden? That made him so eager to carry Karen's hurt in the center of his own warm palm?

Was it the need for kinship? For Frank to know that others suffered as deeply as he did—that others worry and fear and struggle against a thousand dark things as well? That seeing someone else’s demons made his feel less unconquerable?

Or maybe it was the desire to ease someone else’s pain. To bear the yoke of another while his shoulders were strong enough to take the extra load. To feel like he was doing something—no matter how small and modest—to make a dent in the suffering that threatened to choke the entire world in its grasp.

Frank didn’t know. So he shrugged. “Because I want to know you.”

It was a good enough answer for Karen.

“Uh.” She took a deep breath. “My sophomore year of college, I got a call from my dad. My mom had collapsed in the yard; took her to the doctor and found late-stage lung cancer. You know, it just goes to show how little attention we paid to her—nobody knew she was sneaking away ten, fifteen times a day to smoke. To deal with the stress of living in that house. It was…just a shock.”

Karen’s hands on her lap flexed, and Frank watched the movement. He widened his stance a little to allow his outer thigh to brush against hers. It was all the comfort he knew to give.

“I went home to see her, but it just…it wasn’t enough. The chemo and the sickness—her mind wasn’t really there. And I just had this moment, sitting by her bedside with Kevin, where I realized that I didn’t really know a damn thing about the woman who gave birth to me. All I knew was the shit I learned from my Dad. I’d never tried to get to know her.” Her voice was small as she spoke—a sad, broken thing living deep in her throat.

Frank’s heart was thudding heavily in his chest. He was no stranger to pain—was something of a connoisseur, really. Could describe in detail exactly how white-hot fragments of agony bloom through the nose as it shatters; the jolting convulsions that wrack the body as a bullet rips through muscle and tendon and sinew; the bloodied-knuckles and dislocated shoulders everyone in his profession suffered. He even knew a thing or two about mental pain; the brain nausea of guilt and sorrow.

But experiencing someone else’s pain? That was a different sensation altogether. Feeling small, delicate parts of yourself splinter in response to memories that aren’t even your own; hurting because of people you’ve never even met, and situations you’ve never experienced before. It was strange—it was heavy. But he found that he didn’t mind—not for Karen.

“When she passed away, Kevin and I cleaned out her room—she’d been sleeping apart from my father for years. We found these yearbooks, and these diaries from before she’d met him.” Karen looked down at her hands. “It was so heartbreaking, you know? She used to be this vibrant, beautiful, lively person when she was young. She was a cheerleader, and class president. She had this amazing, profound internal life that she wrote about in great detail. And I never knew that. We never would have guessed.” Karen trailed off. She didn’t know what else there was to say. What she _could_ say.

“So your dad…?” Frank prodded.

“I don’t talk to him. Part of me blames him for my mom’s death. Part of me kind of blames _myself_ , too. And Kevin. For not seeing what he was doing to her. For years, the guilt was just…immeasurable. What we had all done to her—let happen to her. It was beyond horrible.”

“Is that—is that what you were talking about? The other day, when you said you knew what it was like to be a bystander to cruelty?” Frank turned to look at her, but she was staring straight forward.

“Yeah.”

“But you were just a kid, huh? You said it yourself—you didn’t know any better.”

“But I should have.” Karen shook her head vehemently. “I’m not an idiot; I was always smart. I should have known.”

“I don’t know,” Frank raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You grow up in a house that teaches you something, it can take years to unlearn.”

“I know. There’s a part of me that knows that. But there’s another part of me that is just guilty.”

A pause—Karen running a hand across her mouth. Frank understood that; knew what it was like to carry a weight that was difficult to explain to others.

“So what did he call about?” Frank nudged her with his knee.

“Uh, my brother, Kevin. When he passed away—car accident, just a few months after my mom—we left his truck sitting in the garage. But Dad’s moving and he wants to get rid of it; called to see if I’d take it off his hands.”

“Are you gonna?”

“I mean…I think I _have_ to. I can’t stand the thought of that car sitting in the dump. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I can’t let it get broken down for parts.”

“Hmm.” Frank made an understanding little noise, but didn’t say anything else. Karen appreciated it—the worst part about telling people her life story was the obligatory response of “I’m so sorry” and “that’s terrible.” People always felt like they had to _say_ things. But they didn’t—Karen didn’t need that.

They just sat, in the deepening night, thinking. There was a lot about Karen that made sense, knowing her background. Her gritty, take-no-shit attitude; her absolute refusal to be spoken down to by any man; her determination to be independent and strong. Responses to childhood wounds that didn’t quite seem like they would ever heal. Frank was conflicted, because on the one hand, he felt an unutterable sadness for Karen, carrying the guilt of her mother’s death. But on the other hand, he felt privileged that she’d given her story to him. There’s always something immensely beautiful about vulnerability. Having someone share the parts of themselves that are hard to look at—that kind of intimacy—it’s the stuff that bonds humanity together. Makes people into homes.

“It’s crazy, though.” Karen spoke. “Every time I hear his voice, it just fucks with my head a little. Because I have all this anger toward him—this fucking _rage_ —but he’s still my dad.” She chuckled—a harsh noise. “Love is such an irrational emotion. When you go your whole childhood loving someone, it can be really hard to unlearn that love—no matter how many terrible things you find out about them. And that’s the hardest bit for me. Every time I hear his voice, there’s this small part of me that feels like that little girl, sitting on his lap and calling him ‘daddy.’”

“You know,” Frank took a deep breath, contemplating. “There’s stuff you know in your head, right? And stuff you know in your heart. I think it’s pretty common when the two don’t agree.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Karen scuffed the heel of her tennis shoe along the concrete. “Doesn’t make it any less of a head fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“All this stuff, Frank? I’ve had years to work through it. In fact, I’d almost convinced myself I was over it all—that I was doing okay. But just hearing my dad’s voice, it kicked up a lot of stuff.” She slid down on the bench, her leg dragging along Frank’s own as she went. A frisson of awareness worked its way up his spine.

“Don’t think anyone ever gets over their childhood, Karen. That baggage stays with you.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Nah,” Frank shook his head. “Nothing so serious as what you’re talking about. But I have my fair share of shit.”

“For another night?” Karen asked.

“Yeah. For another night.” He nodded, quirking his lips. He liked the idea of that—future nights talking with Karen.

“Hey. Thanks for this. For listening. I know that dealing with a crazy lady was probably not on your agenda.”

“My agenda is flexible.”

“That’s good to know.” Karen grinned at him, and it wasn’t tinged with that little trace of darkness. It was a real smile. Frank’s heart stuttered.

“You okay now?”

Pausing, Karen took a deep breath. Let it out slowly; measured. “Yeah, I think I am.” She glanced at him sideways, then fought down a yawn. Crashing from a panic attack always made her feel like she could sleep for ages.

“Time to go home?” Frank stood up, offering his hand to pull her to her feet.

“Time to go home.” She squeezed it gently before releasing it.

 

That night, Frank lay in bed and thought about Karen. About the thousand beautiful and terrible things living inside of her.

Then he thought about Wolff’s Law—it was the only concept he had managed to remember from his 12th grade Biology class, and only because he’d found it so wickedly fascinating. The human body, it turns out, is pretty amazing at adapting to anything the world can throw its way. Every part of it is geared toward protecting the life that keeps it moving and heaving along; bouncing back from the innumerable ways the universe tries to break and tear and wear down.

Wolff’s Law is the idea that bones grow stronger the greater the pressure they are placed under. The heavier a load a bone is forced to carry, the stronger and denser it becomes, until it is able to adapt to bear the burden it has been tasked to bear.

The human spirit, Frank had discovered, worked in much the same way. The more you asked of it, the more it gave. Always capable—of overcoming; of surviving; of becoming more.

Fierce and unapologetic and indomitable.

Just like Karen.


	6. Training AKA "Meet My Father"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeey! So I struggle writing the emotional scenes about Karen's dad, but what ya gonna do?

It only took three days following Karen and Frank’s conversation at the diner for the Castle-Murdock contract to be finalized. Three days of non-stop phone calls between David and Danny Rand, complicated negotiations involving an endless stream of WBA officials, and intense haggling with the numerous venues vying to host the fight. Karen had done the heavy lifting, getting Team Castle in contact with Murdock’s people, but it was up to David to iron out all of the details. And there seemed to be an endless stream of details; a thousand moving parts to be carefully nudged into place. Frank half-believed that David’s phone would fuse to his ear, he was so rarely without it. Sometimes speaking in a thin whisper, and sometimes raising his voice to a hard, adamant edge (Frank didn’t know which of the two was a better sign). They were three tense days—stressful—tinged with the flavor of anticipation; everyone on Team Castle buzzing about, clenched tight in expectancy. Waiting for the authorized “go” from up high.

And then it was done. With a final conference call to the president of the WBA, it was official—Murdock v. Castle was set in stone. The fight of the century gleaming bright and bloody on the horizon.

And that was when the  _ real _ insanity began.

As soon as the match-up was revealed on the WBA website, boxing fans the world over went positively ballistic. The Punisher v. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—it was like a ringside devotee’s wet dream come to life. If Frank thought the media frenzy surrounding his return was bad, the response for his comeback fight was simply beyond comprehension. The day after the news was made public, major networks were already predicting pay-per-view numbers through the roof. The cost of pre-sale tickets was rising into the thousands, and merchandise sporting both Castle and Murdock began flying off the shelves faster than it could be re-stocked.

People started identifying their loyalty by sporting promotional t-shirts sold by all major athletic retailers—red emblazoned with a pair of horns for Murdock and black cut through with a stark white skull for Castle. Things were particularly heated in Hell’s Kitchen, as both boxers were local boys, and entire sects of the neighborhood had split based on the colors they flew from their windows. There was even a filter available for people’s Facebook profiles allowing them to declare their allegiance.

And the reporters—they were absolutely rabid for material. Relentless in their pursuit of that one, golden sound bite from either boxer that would give them the edge over their competitors. Murdock immediately took advantage of the media attention, sitting for a new interview with a different station seemingly every day. Smiling at the camera and laying on the charm for his fans; sending the numbers for his merchandise sales through the fucking roof. There was an entire week, right after the fight had been announced, in which it was impossible to turn on the TV without seeing his grinning mug front and center.

After much prodding from David, Frank agreed to sit for one— _ one _ —interview regarding the upcoming match. If only to at least  _ pretend _ like Castle PR was throwing its hat in the ring. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, it was with Karen. A nice little human interest piece that traced Frank’s history on the circuit--a walk down memory lane highlighting some of his best, pre-disappearance fights. Ellison had been floating on Cloud 9 the day it aired, as viewing numbers spiked well beyond anyone’s expectations. Boxing forums had been frothing at the mouth for new footage of The Punisher, and seeing Page and Castle together again was a nice little bit of nostalgia. (Eagle-eyed fans even took to Twitter, live-tweeting the event and keeping a running tally of how many times Frank cracked a smile during the half-hour interview).

Aside from the PR, which was more of a thorn in his side than anything else, Frank’s whole world seemed to shrink down to preparing for the match. With only four months to make sure he was at the top of his game, Curtis was on his back like a nagging mother—starting training earlier and earlier each morning, and ending later in the evenings. The entire first month of groundwork was devoted solely to understanding Murdock’s silat influences. Karen had graciously donated much of her workout time with Luke to walking them through various tapes she’d compiled of The Devil’s matches, explaining to them everything she had learned regarding the  _ langkahs  _ taught to practitioners of silat.

(There had been several conversations in the early stages of Frank’s training about how extensive Karen’s involvement in the process would be. Curtis had been very concerned about the ethics of it all, wanting to protect her reputation as an objective reporter. Karen, on the other hand, didn’t believe it was ever possible for a person to truly be “objective.” And even if it were, she’d given up on that dream a long time ago. The moment she’d met Frank, to be exact. So despite any protestations, Karen was  _ in _ this thing. Irrevocably. And she was not a woman with whom one could argue.)

She, like Frank, had been studying The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen for the past few years, and she was a hell of a lot better at doing her research than he was. Unfortunately for Curtis, she wasn’t all that great a teacher.

“No, no, no, Hoyle! You gotta turn your left foot a little more—like Murdock does!” Karen was leaning against the ropes of the practice ring, eyes trained on Curtis’s feet. They’d decided a few weeks ago that their best shot at getting a leg up on Murdock involved Karen teaching Curtis to mimic his silat footwork; that way, Frank could get accustomed to countering the moves. It was a great plan—had good bones. The problem, however, was that Curtis didn’t exactly know what the fuck he was doing.

“I  _ am _ turning it!” He huffed, exasperated, staring down at his feet and executing the move again. “Right, Frank?” He looked up at his friend for support.

“Keep me out of it, man.” Frank shook his head, sparing a quick grin at Karen, who was still squinting hard at Curtis, a frown pulling at her lips. The look of concentration on her face was absolute, and he found himself biting back a grin. She was almost as relentless a tyrant as Curtis when it came to training—fierce in everything she did.

“This is impossible—if I turn my left foot any more, I’m going to lose my balance.” Barely resisting the urge to throw his hands up in defeat, Curtis heaved a huge sigh.

“I know it seems crazy, but I’m telling you—Murdock turns it even more.” Karen stared down at her own feet, trying the move herself. She wobbled—held out an arm for balance—and made another attempt, with the same results. Her nose scrunched tightly, a sure sign that she was working herself up to the edge of exasperation.

“It’s just not gonna happen, Karen.” Curtis turned to Frank, scowling, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Man, you better appreciate all the bullshit I do for you.”

“You know I do.” Frank held his hands up in a penitent gesture, and Curtis eyed him for a moment before groaning and assuming the position they’d been drilling all day.

Fortunately, though, he was saved from another round of Karen’s berating (for the time being, at least) by Luke Cage.

“Hey Curtis!” Three heads turned to look at the acting manager of Hoyle’s Gym, who appeared from out of the back office, a stack of papers in his hands. “Can you take a quick break from pounding on Castle and look at these accounts for me? Numbers aren’t adding up.” He held up a sheet covered in a dense block of calculations—an entire business represented in stark black ink—waving it around.

“Yeah, give me a second.” Curtis’s voice was thick with relief as he pulled off his gloves, tossing them to Karen and moving to slide off the canvas. He pointed at her. “You spar with Frank while I’m gone. You’re the silat expert here anyway.”

“What?” Karen dropped the gloves she had caught on reflex. “I am  _ not _ sparring with him!”

“Hey.” There was a touch of offense in Frank’s tone. “What’s so awful about sparring with me?”

“Even if you went as easy on me as humanly possible, you’d still probably beat my ass into the canvas!”

“What? No I wouldn’t. I used to spar with my kids all the time—never hurt either of them.”

“Yeah, but they’re your kids. The whole paternal protectiveness thing kicks in with them.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Maybe it is, but I’m not taking any chances, Castle. You ruin my face and my career is over.”

“Pretty sure it’s not your face that’s making your career, Kare. It’s that smart mouth of yours.” He gestured at said mouth, which was twisted in a half-frown.

Curtis looked back and forth between the two, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Whatever. Spar or don’t spar. I’ll be back in a minute. Play nice.”

He walked toward the office, chuckling to himself; when he peeked over his shoulder to see Frank and Karen still staring at each other, seemingly in a stand-off, a buoyant feeling filled his chest. 

In the whirlwind that had followed their return from Lake Placid, so much of the buzz had surrounded  _ Frank’s _ re-integration into the world—the dramatic hero’s return. But nobody really stopped to think about  _ Curtis _ —how he’d also suffered from the isolated madness of their sabbatical. Lost two years of his life in upstate New York, trying to help Frank find a way out of the darkness he’d been thrust into. And now that he was back in Hoyle’s Gym—a place that felt like absolute sanctuary; that held the ghosts of his forefathers—he couldn’t be happier. Every day he got to spend walking the gleaming wood floors his great-great grandfather had installed with his own two hands was a gift. So the little spring in his step as he walked away wasn’t going to disappear any time soon.

He cast one more glance at Karen and Frank as he stepped in the office, and it was the feeling of family that settled in his bones.

Karen waited until Curtis had disappeared behind the door before hauling herself up onto the canvas, turning around to sit with her legs dangling over the side and her arms crossed atop the ropes. Frank watched her for a beat, dragging a forearm over his sweaty face. She looked so comfortable—so at home—in the ring. It twisted something soft in his chest. With a tired groan, he sat as well, scooting close until his knee bumped against hers in comradery.

“Can’t believe you won’t spar with me.” He muttered, pulling off his gloves and flexing his fingers. Karen’s eyes were instantly drawn to the movement—damn, but those long fingers did things to her. Had her choking down a little shiver of appreciation.

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes, “I’m a coward. I get it.”

“A coward? Nah.” Frank shook his head. “Never accuse you of  _ that _ .”

She grinned.

It was quiet for a moment, as they both sat there, breathing in the calm of the nearly-empty gym. There was something a little spiritual about the space—high, sloping ceilings and echoing walls. When the sun shone through the lofty windows, illuminating golden flecks of dust drifting in the air, it reminded Karen a bit of her childhood spent on Sunday morning pews. Of the kaleidoscopic beams that would filter through the stained glass of the church her father would drag the family to every week. Of the gentle, wondering feeling that seems to fill hallowed spaces—like a warm wine spreading through the body. Made her think about how any place could be sanctified; could feel like consecrated ground. All it took, after all, was a handful of worshipers to make God from dust.

She was broken from her thoughts by Frank’s knee nudging gently against her own.

“Any news on your dad?” His voice was low—private—when he spoke.

“Uh, yeah, actually.” It had taken Karen a solid week to work up the courage to call her father after the night of the voicemail, and when she finally did, their conversation was short. Curt. To the point. “I’m taking the truck. He’s gonna drive it down here and drop it off, then fly back to Vermont the next morning.”

“He’s going to  _ drive _ it down here?”

“Yep.” Karen popped her “p,” sighing. “All 188.4 miles from Bennington, Vermont.” At Frank’s incredulous look, she shook her head. “I tried to tell him it was a stupid plan—that he could just have it towed down, but he’s a stubborn asshole. Said a real man doesn’t pay other people to do his work.” The phrase “real man” was accompanied by a generous eye roll.

“So when’s he coming?”

“Oh, that’s the best part.” There was bitterness in Karen’s tone. “Not for another month or so. Wanna know why?” She didn’t even wait for Frank to respond. “Because he’s scheduling his visit to coincide with a new WWII exhibit opening at the Harbor War Museum in five weeks. Something like ‘Civilian Causalities in France.’ He’s already got pre-sale tickets. That way—his words, FYI—the visit won’t be ‘a total waste of his time,’ because at least he’ll get to spend all day at a fucking war museum.”

Frank didn’t know what to say, so he just scooted closer until his arm was brushing Karen’s—a small comfort.

She took a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. “I was so mad at him, and so ready to just get off the phone, that I did something really stupid, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Karen reached up to tighten her pony tail. “I agreed to get lunch with him when he comes in.”

“Karen.”

“I know, I know. It was dumb.” She shook her head. “But I was at the point where I would have said anything to put an end to the conversation, and it just kind of popped out of my mouth.”

“You can always back out, right?” Frank was watching her from the corner of his eye, concerned.

“Not with my dad, no. It would just cause more shit. I think I’m stuck.”

“Well you—” he paused, thinking. “You gonna be okay? You gonna be able to handle that? Seeing him?” He was remembering her minor panic attack outside of the diner; how she’d almost come undone just at the sound of his voice. He didn’t want to think about what seeing him would do to her.

“I think I’m going to have to.” Karen shrugged. “I mean, how long can lunch last, right? Maybe an hour and a half? Two hours? I can do that.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” Frank frowned. The idea of Karen seeing her father in person didn’t sit well with him—not when he knew the kind of pain the man was capable of causing. There was a deep surge of protectiveness bubbling up inside of him, telling him to do something. To say something.  _ Anything _ to take the burden from her. But he didn’t know how.

“Yeah, I know.” Karen rubbed hands down her thighs. “But I’ve been dealing with Dad stuff for years. I figure a handful of hours won’t be any skin off of my back. And I still have a month or so to prepare for it, so I’ve got time.”

“You talk to Foggy about this? Trish?”

“Nah.” Shaking her head, Karen made an expression that looked almost like a grimace. “I just…” she ran a hand over her mouth. “I don’t want to bother them. A part of me almost feels like not acknowledging it will make it go away. Like if I keep my Dad stuff separate from my real life—my work life—I can just pretend it’s not happening. The less I talk about it, the smaller it becomes.”

“You talk about it with  _ me _ .”

“Yeah, but you’re…” Pursing her lips, Karen struggled to find the right words. “You understand. You don’t make me feel like things are broken.”

Frank’s chest tightened with something sweet and heavy.  _ You don’t make me feel like things are broken _ —he could have said the same of her.

“Well you know if you need anything…” Trailing off, he didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. It was the implied promise of their friendship:  _ you need me, and I’m there _ .

With a quick, little smile, Karen bumped her shoulder against his.

“I know.”

“Okay, you two! Off your asses!” Curtis reappeared from his office, stretching his left arm across his body. “If I have to suffer through this training, you do too.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Karen slid off of the canvas and back onto the floor with a little salute, while Frank stood up, pulling his gloves back on.

Month two of training was a lot less painful for Curtis, as they mostly focused on ring tactics—unraveling the psychological game. Strategizing ways to play to Frank’s strengths while targeting Murdock’s weaknesses. Again, Karen’s insight was key in this stage of preparation. While Frank and Curtis had devoured every match, and every blow-by-blow recap they could find online while at Lake Placid, Karen had been smack in the middle of all of the action. She could offer insight into Murdock’s style beyond what they were able to glean through video footage.

Frank ramped up his training hours, pushing himself to the point where Karen began to worry a little bit; his workout schedule bordered on incomprehensible. He was staring so early, and staying so late in the evening, that she couldn’t begin to guess when he was catching enough sleep to fuel him for a full day. But he assured her that he knew what he was doing, and that he could read his own body. He’d learned exactly how far he was capable of pushing himself while up on Lake Placid, and it was a hell of a lot further than he’d ever realized.

In between the intense training and avoiding the media frenzy, Frank still managed to find time for the things that were truly important. Like visiting his children, who he still saw every weekend (and a handful of weeknights). For Frankie’s birthday, he’d actually taken them to Coney Island, where he’d frustrated the snotty teenager working the sharp-shooting booth by hitting the target every time, winning both his kids a giant teddy bear in the process. Later, while Lisa and Frankie were on the Tilt-a-Whirl, he’d gone back and picked up a little stuffed lion for Karen, which sat proudly on her desk at CBS NY.

Because he was almost always thinking about Karen—always found time for her.

No matter how hectic his schedule became, Frank made sure to eat dinner with her three times a week. It was their little ritual. Something they both just  _ needed— _ time to decompress and sit in comfort with someone who needed no explanation; who demanded nothing and gave everything. A moment of calm—of connection and kinship.

Karen still talked a lot about her work at their dinners—so much, in fact, that Frank almost felt like he didn’t need to meet Trish and Jess in order to know them. But she also began to open up about her father. Began trying to untangle some of her complicated feelings toward the man; verbally processing years of emotional wreckage. And once that particular floodgate had been opened for her, it proved difficult to close. It was strange, because she had so many great memories of her father—watching football together on Sundays, camping out in the backyard, going tailgating with all of his old college buddies.

But for every rose-colored story, there were ten more she could dredge from the back of her mind about the terrible things the man had done to his wife. Like the time when Kevin and Karen were in high school, and their mother had applied for a job at the local Kinko’s, just to have something to do during the day. But their father called up the manager and told him not to hire her, because he didn’t want her working. Or the time he made her re-cook his dinner three times in one night, because he kept complaining that the chicken was too dry. Or how he wouldn’t “allow her” to be friends with the woman who lived next door, because she had dated and dumped one of his work buddies.

These were stories Karen hadn’t told anyone since Trish way back in college, but they felt good to get out of her. Like plucking burning coals from deep in her throat, soothing a kind of white-hot pain to which she’d simply grown accustomed. And Frank was a perfect listener—sympathetic, but not pitying. He didn’t do that thing Karen always despised, spouting pop-therapy garbage about “letting things go” and “forgiving her inner child.” (It was one of the main reasons she’d stopped talking about her father to people—they always wanted to fix things; heal things. Some things, however, resisted all mending). But he always found ways—subtle, gentle ways—to remind her not to blame herself for the signs she didn’t recognize as a kid. 

There was a deep, abiding kind of compassion in the way he looked at her when she spoke about her father, and it somehow made the idea of forgiving herself feel a little more within reach.

When they weren’t talking about Karen’s father, they were talking about Frank. Pulling him out of himself just a little bit more each time they sat down at the red Formica table in the back of the diner that had become their regular spot. Despite the fact that he was getting a lot better about opening up, he still stuck to mostly-safe topics. His early boxing career; his wild teenage years; his kids. Not that he was actively avoiding the deeper conversations—just that they didn’t come as naturally to him. Karen noticed, with some level of interest, that he didn’t really talk about Maria. It was such a subtle kind of evasion that she hadn’t really picked up on it at first—but every time the topic of conversation turned to past relationships, Frank closed right up.

Sure, Karen thought it was a little bit strange to have such a deeply-developing friendship with Frank and yet not know a single thing about his ex-wife, but she kept reminding herself that she still had time; that she’d pry open all of the closed-off parts of him eventually.

And Frank knew she would—could feel her worming her way into every part of his life a little more, day-by-day.

No—“worming her way” wasn’t the right phrase; it implied some kind of intrusion. An infiltration. But Frank  _ wanted _ her there; desperately. It was a desire for belonging—for attachment—that spoke to the very heat of his blood. When he’d returned from Lake Placid, he’d thought that his newfound need for openness was a symptom of his time in isolation; a reaction against the loneliness. But now he realized that it was a symptom of knowing  _ Karen _ . He didn’t want to be tied to just anyone; he wanted to be tied to  _ her _ . To know  _ her _ , and to be known in return.

Everything felt just a little bit lighter when they were together; a little bit sunnier.

It was a powerful feeling—and confusing.

“Man, I’m glad I’m not that punching bag right now.” Frank leaned against the doorframe of Curtis’s office, watching Karen in action, practicing her jabs. One after the other, forceful and precise—the woman was a machine.

She didn’t respond—she was concentrating too acutely. But Frank didn’t mind; he took a great deal of pleasure in just observing. Karen was a very attractive woman, there was no question about it. Those wide, blue eyes; the corn silk hair; the legs that went on for miles. It was a dangerous fucking combination.

But watching her pound the ever-loving shit out of a punching bag—grunting, sweat dripping down her face, teeth bared. That was on a whole other level. That was something Frank hadn’t even realized he was into.

She threw a few more punches, then a power kick for good measure (the kick was something Luke had taught her—not regulation boxing). Bending over with her hands on her thighs, she took a few deep breaths, cooling down.

“So you working out anything in particular today?” Frank averted his eyes—she was wearing those yoga pants that just  _ did _ something for him. Something his grey joggers weren’t meant to conceal.

“Aren’t I always?” She glanced at him over her shoulder, straightening and removing her gloves.

“Your dad?”

It was a fair guess—Karen only had about a week left until her father came into town, and her nerves had been getting the best of her recently. In fact, her anxiety about his upcoming visit had practically dominated all of her recent conversations with Frank.

But that wasn’t what was upsetting her on this particular night. No—it was something else.

“Actually,” Karen took a swig of her water bottle, dumping a little over her head. (Frank shifted, eyes glued to her). “It’s Ellison this time. Got me a little worked up.”

“Uh oh.” Crossing his arms, Frank frowned. “What’d he do?” Karen had gotten into so much trouble with her boss on his behalf lately, he was almost expecting the latest issue to be his fault. But was pleasantly surprised when it wasn’t.

“Well, to be fair, this one was partly on me. Though I stand by what I did a hundred percent.” Karen started, and Frank knew he was in for an interesting story. “I thought I was still riding a wave of good energy from that interview you did with me, and I kind of assumed, wrongly, that I could get away with it.”

“Get away with what?”

“Ellison assigned Andrew Fray to this big interview with the newest shortstop for the Yankees, despite the fact that  _ I _ was the one responsible for doing all of the background research on the kid.” Karen stretched her arms above her head as she spoke, popping her back. “So I sweet talked the intern into bringing me a copy of Fray’s schedule. I grabbed Foggy and got to the stadium about an hour before Fray and told the kid I was the one interviewing him. Snapped him up before Fray even got there.”

“Karen.” Frank’s voice was part chastising, part affectionate. “Come on.”

“I know. I know.” She rolled her eyes, more at herself than at Frank. “It’s just that Ellison was so fucking ecstatic after we did that interview together, I was sure that it would more than allow me a little bit of space to fuck up once or twice.”

“And it didn’t?”

“No, it did  _ not _ . He was pissed. Extremely pissed. He took me off your match with Murdock.”

“What?!” Frank, who had been casually leaning against the door frame, was standing up straight in an instant, eyes wide.

“Yeah. Gave it to fucking Fray. To make up for the interview I poached.”

“You can’t let him do that.” Frank’s voice was adamant.

“I know. I know. I’m working on it.” Karen held up her hands. “I’ve still got two months to convince him to put me back on the match. I’m sure I can drum up some good karma before then.”

Frank watched her, eyes narrowed, frowning. He trusted her, of course, but he didn’t like the idea of doing an interview with someone else. He’d gotten very comfortable only pulling out the dog-and-pony-show for her.

“It’ll be okay, Frank.” Karen grinned at him. “I’ll just play extra sweet, and Ellison will see the error of his ways.”

It turned out she wouldn’t have to do much of anything to get put back on the match; Frank would do it for her.

Walking into the newsroom the next morning, Karen was more than ready to play a game of kiss-ass with the boss. She’d come prepared with an extra coffee (the disgusting soy latte Ellison preferred) and a box of donuts (maple glazed—his favorite).

“Someone’s a little brown noser today, aren’t they?” Jess looked up from the soundboard as Karen backed her way into the editing room. “Plan on setting up camp in Ellison’s ass, or will it just be a day visit?”

“Hey, be nice.” Karen tutted. “I brought you coffee, too.” She lowered the carry container so Jess could grab her cup.

“Black, one sugar?” She asked, lifting the top and sniffing at the drink.

“Yep. With a little dash of cinnamon.”

“Nice.” Taking a sip, Jess grinned, pleased with the offering.

“Is he in yet?” Karen jerked her head in the direction of Ellison’s office.

“He’s in a meeting, I think. With that one producer whose toupee is just, like… _ ghastly _ .”

“Ah.” Nodding, Karen plopped down into the rolling chair next to Jess’s. “So I’ll be hanging out here for a bit, I guess.”

“Only if you promise not to touch my shit.” She eyed Karen pointedly.

“I promise.”

“Good.”

It was quiet for a moment, as Jess finished tweaking the sound on a clip meant to air in the 12 o’clock slot.

“So Karen…” She removed her headset when she was done, spinning in her chair until she was facing her friend. With her hands steepled under her chin and one brow raised, she looked absolutely devious. A bit like a Bond villain.

“So Jess…” Karen mimicked, lips pursed.

“Now that I’ve got you alone—no escape. Let’s talk Frank Castle.”

Karen groaned, sliding down in her seat. She should have known—shouldn’t have trusted Jess to leave well enough alone.

For the past two months, Trish had been riding her ass daily, trying to get her to talk about her relationship with Frank. No matter how many times Karen protested that there wasn’t much to talk about—they were just friends—Trish was incapable of leaving it be. She was like a dog with a bone when she got an idea stuck in her head. But Karen had assumed that Jess was above it all, as she didn’t seem particularly interested in the topic when it arose. Clearly, however, she was wrong; Jess had merely been biding her time. The conniving woman.

“Don’t do this to me. Not after I brought you coffee.” Karen complained, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

“Hey—coffee is not a get-out-of-uncomfortable-conversations-free card, Karen.”

“It should be.”

“But it isn’t.” Jess wheeled her chair closer, until they were practically knee-to-knee. “Why do you hate talking about Castle so much? Do you know how fucking suspicious it is that you get so squirrely every time someone mentions his name.”

“I do not get  _ squirrely _ .” Karen scrunched her nose in disapproval.

“Karen. I’m half-tempted to follow you home and see where you bury your fucking acorns.”

“You’re being overdramatic.”

“ _ You’re _ being overdramatic,” Jess shot back.

It was a fair question, though. Why  _ did _ Karen hate it when the girls prodded her to talk about Frank? How could she even begin to explain?

When she was 12 years old,  _ Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone  _ had just come out. Karen had been the first of her friends to pick it up—way before J.K. Rowling became a household name and Harry’s face was emblazoned on every pre-teen’s t-shirt. She had devoured the book in a single night—just ate it up. And as soon as she arrived at school the next day, she was shoving it into her best friend’s hands. Going on and on about Hogwarts and quidditch and transfiguration class. Anyone who would listen, she was telling them about this new  _ Harry Potter  _ thing. Because it had made her happy, and she wanted to share that happiness.

Two years later, Karen had discovered a copy of  _ The Little Prince _ shoved in the back of the clearance section at her local used book store _.  _ Old, yellowing, and filled with annotations, it appeared to her like some relic from another lifetime, left behind for her, specifically, to find. Of course, being 14 years old, Karen had no idea that it was a classic book, beloved by millions. As far as  _ she _ knew, the copy in her hands was the only one that existed on the planet. The publication date read “1976,” which seemed like eons ago to her teenage mind. As she’d held the book in her hands, it felt like a treasure—something secret and powerful. A rare and precious thing.

That evening, she’d hidden under the covers after everyone had gone to bed, flicked on a flashlight, and lost herself in the story. She read it five times that night, tears streaming down her face. The kind of crying you can’t explain, because it almost feels like something that happens  _ to _ you, not something you control.

“You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.”

The paragraph had been underlined several times by the book’s previous owner, and Karen read it silently to herself over and over again, feeling her heart grow, somehow, both incredibly heavy and inexplicably light.

_ The Little Prince  _ touched a place deep within her that she hadn’t even known existed. Tapped into something so elemental—so human—that she felt a bit like she was slipping out of her skin. There was so much beauty there, and so much truth, that for a moment she understood how profound and complicated it was to be alive. To exist as a creature capable of so much love, and so much heartbreak— _ always _ capable, beyond what appear to be the outer reaches of impossibility.

She remembered laying back on her bed that night, arms spread wide, and wanting to dissolve into the world, particle-by-particle.

The next day at school, she didn’t tell anyone about the book. She kept it sequestered away in her backpack—could feel it like a beating heart pressed between her algebra notes and her history binder. Like a gift too exquisite to give away. A tiny little light in the bleak darkness, meant to be cupped and held in her hands, and her hands alone.

She felt about Frank a little bit like she felt about  _ The Little Prince _ . And that was the only way to describe it.

But of course she couldn’t explain that to Jess, so instead she just shrugged.

“I don’t know. Frank feels like the kind of person you don’t gossip to your friends about.”

“Karen.” Jess tilted her chin down, frowning. “ _ Nobody _ is the kind of person you can’t gossip to your friends about.”

“I don’t know that to tell you.” Karen sighed. “ _ Frank _ is. I don’t even talk to Foggy about him.”

“Really?” Jess’s eyebrows shot up, surprised. “Even  _ Foggy _ ?”

“Yeah. Even Foggy.” Karen repeated. With the amount of time Karen and Foggy spent together over the years—driving places in the news van, waiting outside stadiums, grabbing lunch in between interviews—he had become her closest confidant. She loved Jess and Trish, but Foggy was usually the first person to hear any and all of her news, just because he was  _ there _ all the time. But she didn’t even let Foggy in on her relationship with Frank. As far as he knew, they just saw each other a couple of times a week when she went to work out at Hoyle’s. He didn’t even know about their dinners together.

“Well that’s messed up, Kare.” Jess shook her head. “Squirrely as fuck.”

Karen was saved from having to continue the conversation by the sight of Ellison walking passed the door, heading toward his office. He wasn’t scowling, as he often did after meetings with the producers, which was a good sign.

“Ellison!” Karen stuck her head out of the editing room, getting his attention. The moment he turned and caught sight of her, his face fell. Okay,  _ that _ wasn’t a good sign.

“Yes, Karen?”

“I brought coffee!” She held up the carry container. “And donuts!” Waving a quick goodbye to Jess, she started down the hallway. Ellison sighed.

“If this is about the Murdock-Castle match, you shouldn’t bother.” He was tempted to brush Karen off and leave her standing in the corridor alone, but the allure of coffee and donuts was too great. He held open his office door and let her in, following behind. “Your friend already handled it for you. Funny, though—I didn’t think you were the kind of person to let others fight your battles for you.”

From the look on Karen’s face, Ellison could tell that she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh? He didn’t tell you?” He grabbed the coffee she offered, and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. “I got a phone call early this morning from David Lieberman. Says Castle won’t give CBS NY an interview if we send him Fray. Not hard to figure out why.”

“What?!” Karen was dumbfounded, lowering herself into the seat opposite the news director.

“So you really didn’t know? You didn’t put him up to it?”

Karen was a little offended. Ellison was right—she definitely wasn’t the kind of person to let others fight her battles for her.  She’d  _ told _ Frank she was going to handle it, and that had been the plan. The stubborn man.

“I’m sorry, Ellison. I had nothing to do with that, I promise.” She held up her hands in an earnest gesture. He scanned her face, as though reading her for veracity. Then he sighed.

“Look, I know you think I hate you, Karen. Or that I’m always being unfair to you—”

“No, I—”

“But I don’t.” Ellison cut off her protestations. “Hate you, I mean.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m going to level with you, Page. You’re the best sports reporter I’ve got. You  _ know _ that. But can you try to think about things from my perspective for one second, huh? You’re always running off doing stupid things, like poaching interviews and berating athletes on TV.” Years had passed since the Grant-Hass interview, but Ellison still liked to pull it out of his back pocket every time Karen upset him. “Do you know how many times a day I have Fray busting into the office yelling at me to do something about you? Demanding that I punish you or some shit?” Ellison ran a hand over his bald head. “So I bump you to a bum beat every once in a while, or throw him one of your interviews. But it’s just to keep the fucking peace, Karen. I was always going to put you back on Castle-Murdock, because I’m not an idiot. I just wanted Fray to feel vindicated for a little while.”

Karen deflated. She hadn’t thought about things from Ellison’s perspective. She supposed she was so used to being on guard—taking up a defensive position against the misogynists and assholes she worked with every day—that she didn’t stop to think that there might be other motivations for what she perceived as obvious slights.

Ellison watched Karen processing her thoughts, and took another sip of his coffee. He had to admit—it was softening him up just a little bit.

“Look,” she shook her head, “I’m sorry about the Lieberman thing. I really didn’t put him up to it. And I’ll be better in the future about playing by the rules, so—”

“No you won’t.” Ellison didn’t sound angry, only resigned.

“Well I’ll  _ try _ , okay?”

“Okay.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking very tired. “Guess that’s better than nothing.”

It was quiet for a moment, before Karen rose to leave.

“Hey.” She turned around at Ellison’s voice. “Leave the donuts.” He pointed to the box in her hands. “I at least deserve the donuts for all the shit you put me through.”

“Sure thing.”

Frank knew he was in trouble the moment Karen set foot in the gym that evening. It was all there in the blazing look on her face—the tight set of her mouth and the fire behind her eyes.

“Frank Castle!” She was yelling his name before he could even say hello. “You absolutely obstinate man!”

“Karen, hey—” he held up his hands, trying to get her to quiet down.

“I  _ told _ you I would handle things with Ellison.” She ignored him, already too worked up. In her state, she didn’t notice the way he darted his eyes over his shoulder toward Curtis’s office, as if keeping lookout for something. “I had everything under control. I don’t need you fighting my battles for me.” She stopped in front of him, almost toe-to-toe. Her shoulders thrown back, defiant.

“Karen, please—” he tried again.

“No, no, no.” She shook her head. “This is important to me. I need you to understand that I take care of my own shit, okay? I don’t need anyone stepping in my behalf to—”

“Karen.” Frank’s voice was half-exasperated.

“—take care of things I’m  _ already _ taking care of. I’m a big girl, Castle, and I’ve never needed anybody to get involved in—”

“Oh my god! Is that Karen Page?!”

The sound of her name drew Karen’s attention, and she tilted her head to the side, looking past Frank’s shoulder to see a tall, beautiful brunette standing in the doorway of Curtis’s office. Next to her was the girl who had spoken—a kid too perfect a mixture of Frank and the brunette to be anyone but Lisa Castle.

“Lisa. Indoor voice.” The woman, obviously Maria, chastised.

“But  _ she _ was yelling, mom.” Lisa pointed at Karen.

“She’s an adult, honey. She’s allowed to yell if she wants to.”

As Maria and Lisa made their way over, Frank leaned down to whisper in Karen’s ear.

“Lisa’s soccer practice got cancelled. Maria’s got a date tonight, so I’m looking after her. Try not to curse me out in front of my kid, okay?”

“Fine.” Karen pursed her lips. “But we’re talking about this later.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Oh man, this is so cool.” Lisa was practically buzzing as soon as she reached Karen’s side. “My dad and I watch you on TV all the time. I think you’re so badass.”

“Lisa!” Frank’s voice was disapproving.

“I think you’re so  _ cool _ ,” the girl corrected, rolling her eyes at her father.

“You’ll have to forgive her.” Maria ran an affectionate hand down her daughter’s hair. “She’s never met a real life celebrity before.”

Karen chuckled. “Oh, believe me,” she looked at Lisa, “your dad’s  _ way _ more of a celebrity than I am.”

“No way.” Lisa shook her head, adamant. “Dad’s not a celebrity. He’s a  _ dork _ .”

“Yeah, he’s not so big a deal in our house. Not as big as  _ you _ .” Her mother grinned. “I’m Maria, by the way. This is Lisa.” She stuck out her hand, which Karen took.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Are you here to box? Do you box with my dad?” Lisa was staring at the gloves Karen had tied together, which were dangling from her gym bag.

“Yeah, I box. Not with your dad, though.” Karen shook her head. “He’d kick my butt.”

“I box with my dad sometimes. He never kicks  _ my _ butt.”

“Dads aren’t allowed to kick their kid’s butts, Lisa.” Frank crossed his arms, smiling down at his daughter. The way he said it had Karen thinking that this was probably a common refrain in his household.

“I don’t think you could if you tried.” Lisa crossed her arms as well, a mini-Frank in action. It was so adorable that Karen could almost feel her teeth rotting in her mouth.

“Ooh, bold words.” She looked back and forth between the two. “Do I see a Castle-Castle grudge match in our future?”

“No.” Lisa dropped her arms. “Dad’s gotta train with Uncle Curtis. He hasn’t boxed with me in ages.”

“Hmmm.” Karen crouched down, unzipping her gym bag. “They might be a little big on you, but I think I have a spare pair of gloves somewhere.” She rooted around for a moment, finding her old practice gloves and pulling them out. “If you’re looking for someone to spar with, I might be a little more your speed.”

“Are you serious?” Lisa’s face lit up instantly, as her eyes darted from Karen to her mother to her father. “Can I box with Miss Page?”

“Yeah, can she box with Miss Page?” Karen raised a brow as she looked up at Frank, who was trying his best to hide a smile as he gazed back at her.

“I don’t know. What does her mother say?” He turned to Maria, who was watching Karen with something that looked part admiration and part relief.

“Uhm, I say she can do whatever she wants.” Maria shrugged. “As long as you know what you’re getting into, Karen. This one’s like the energizer bunny.” She yanked on her daughter’s ponytail gently.

“Mom.” Lisa swatted at her hand, looking annoyed in that way pre-teens tend to when their parents are being too publicly affectionate.

“I think I can handle it.” Karen handed Lisa the gloves, which she was shoving her fists into immediately. “You think you can handle  _ me _ ? I’m pretty good.”

“I’m a  _ Castle _ .” The girl threw her shoulders back in pride. “ _ I’m _ pretty good, too.”

Karen grinned, and Frank looked so proud he could burst.

“Alright, then, let’s hit the ring.” Karen led the girl toward the canvas. Throwing one last look over her shoulder at her dad and mom, Lisa followed, practically in heaven.

Maria observed them for a moment, nodding to herself, before turning to Frank when she was sure they were out of earshot.

“She’s gorgeous.”

“She’s got a good-looking dad.”

“I was talking about  _ Karen _ , Frank.” Maria sighed, exasperated.

“Yeah, I know. I was being glib.”

“Well don’t.”

“Can’t help it, I’m afraid.” Frank’s lips quirked upwards.

“You know you’re the only one who finds yourself so entertaining?”

“Quality over quantity.”

Maria snorted a laugh. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Karen hold the ropes apart for Lisa, giving her a boost up into the ring.

“And she’s so nice, too.” Maria continued. “Did you see how at ease she was around Lisa? Very impressive. I was a little worried she’d be annoyed or bothered, but she seems like she likes kids. That’s good.”

“Are these observations going somewhere?” Frank looked at his ex-wife out of the corner of his eye.

“Just noticing some things.” Maria shrugged, but her small smile was knowing. “She was yelling at you earlier—you do anything I need to know about?”

“Nah.” Frank huffed out a little breath. “Just put my foot in it a little. Nothing too big.”

“Okay, okay.” Maria bobbed her head in a nod. “Well try not to do it again, huh? I like her.”

Frank sighed, rolling his shoulders. He knew what Maria was getting at—she wasn’t exactly subtle—and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Don’t you have a hot date you have to be getting to?”

“Oh!” As if suddenly remembering the time, she glanced down at her watch. “Shit, yeah.” She dug in her purse for her car keys. “Lisa!” She yelled, and the girl whipped her head around to look at her mother. “I’m heading out! You be good!”

“I’ll try!” Lisa yelled back, and Frank chuckled.

“Don’t let her bug Karen too much, okay?” Maria turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“I won’t.”

“Okay. I’ll pick her up at 8:30. You be good, too.”

“Always am.” 

“Debatable.” Maria rolled her eyes as she walked away.

Frank exhaled deeply as she left the building, then turned to watch Karen crouch down, adjusting Lisa’s positioning to prepare for some sparring. “How did I end up with so many strong women in my life?” He grumbled to himself.

“I don’t know, but it’s pretty great, right?” Frank almost flinched when Curtis came out of nowhere, clapping a hand on his shoulder. The man had such a habit of sneaking up on people.

“Yeah, it is pretty great.”

“Alright. Now let’s get to work, huh?” Curtis was in trainer-mode in an instant. “Stop mooning over your girl and your kid.”

“Not my girl.” Frank grunted.

“Sure.” Curtis’s voice was heavy with skepticism. “Whatever you say.”

It was fun, training with Curtis in one ring, while Karen and Lisa were sparring in the next. But it wasn’t exactly a productive session, as Frank kept getting distracted by snatches of conversation he heard from the ring over.

“Ooh, that’s a mean jab. You’re gonna break a jaw with that!” Karen exclaimed, cheering Lisa on. The girl’s responding laugh was giddy. “Be careful with this face, though. It’s my money-maker!”

Frank took one on the chin—he was too busy trying to hear how Lisa responded.

“Focus, man!” Curtis bounced from foot-to-foot. “You’re letting me land hits a palooka could slip.”

Frank shook his head, re-training his attention on Curtis. They’d been at it for about 30 minutes—Curtis trying his best to mimic the  _ langkahs  _ Karen had taught him, giving Frank an opportunity to find ways to counter all that fancy footwork. He was getting better at it, too, though not by much.

A few minutes later, Frank heard Karen and Lisa give up on their sparring session. Lisa was pretty good for a kid, but she was still a kid—her stamina wasn’t all that great. Thirty minutes was about pushing her limit.

“You know, Miss Page, you’re not that bad at boxing.” Lisa squeezed through the ropes, sliding down onto the floor with a thud.

“You’re not so bad yourself, kid.” Karen followed after her. “And you can call me Karen.”

“Karen.” Lisa repeated it, as though weighing the name on her tongue. “Nice.”

Slipping off her gloves, Karen crouched down, shoving them back into her gym bag, grabbing her extra pair from Lisa as she did. There was a beat of silence, as the sound of Frank and Curtis grunting--and the smack of boxing gloves on flesh--filled the air.

“Hey Karen?”

“Hey Lisa?”

“This match is really big for my dad, huh?” The girl was looking down at her feet, and her voice was suddenly a touch smaller than it had been. Childlike and hesitant.

“Uh, yeah.” Karen nodded, reaching up and tightening her ponytail, eyeing Lisa, who looked like she wanted to ask something, but wasn’t sure how.

“Do you—do you think he’s gonna win?” There was a touch of uncertainty in her voice, followed closely by guilt. Like she wasn’t confident she was allowed to ask the question.

“Lisa.” Karen waited until the girl looked up, holding her gaze. “I  _ always _ think your dad’s gonna win.”

“I know  _ that _ .” Lisa groaned, sounding a little frustrated. “But that’s because you like him. If you didn’t like him, do you still think he’d win?” She glanced away. “Everyone’s saying that Devil guy is really, really good. And Dad hasn’t fought in a long time.”

“Well…” Karen took a deep breath, thinking. “Your dad’s been working super hard. He’s been studying that Devil guy for months.” She paused, looking up at Frank for a moment, as he dodged a blow with expert skill. “Here. Come with me.”

She led Lisa to the row of observer’s benches circling the ring where Frank and Curtis were sparring. Sitting down, she patted the spot next to her. Lisa took it.

“See, the whole reason Murdock’s been so impossible to defeat is this fancy footwork he does—from this one form of martial arts called silat.” Karen started, eyes on the movement of Curtis’s feet across the canvas—he really  _ was  _ getting better at mimicking the  _ langkahs _ she’d taught himm. “There are these special steps that people do when they know silat, which makes them really quick and difficult to catch, right?”

Lisa nodded.

“Well your dad, he’s been studying those moves for a while. And thinking up ways to counter them. Now look here.” Karen pointed at Curtis’s feet. “That’s called a ‘cat step,’ that your Uncle Curtis is doing. Well, it’s not a real cat step—it’s a version of the step that Murdock uses. But see how your dad is turning in when he throws that jab? That’s because he’s learned how to spot it and counter it quickly.”

“You mean how he twisted like that?” Lisa watched her father do the move again.

“Exactly!” Karen reached into her gym bag, pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, and handed it to Lisa.

“So,” the girl took a big gulp, wiping her hand across her mouth. “He’s gonna know how to beat the Devil?”

“I think so. Without all the fancy footwork, Murdock’s not as big a challenge. He’s not stronger than your dad, and I definitely don’t think he’s any smarter. Faster, maybe, but nothing you dad hasn’t beaten before.”

“Okay.” Lisa nodded to herself. The worry lines between her brows relaxed as she kept her eyes trained on her father. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Karne nudged the girl with her shoulder.  “It is.”

By the time Maria arrived to pick her up, Lisa was begging not to go home. She’d been showing off her jump rope tricks for Karen, and was having a blast. It was with much persuading, and promises of coming back to visit again soon, that she was finally convinced to get into the car.

Karen watched through the front windows as Frank kissed Lisa on the head before sweeping her up into a huge bear hug. It was sweet—unbelievably so—and just a little painful. Seeing such obvious affection between a father and his daughter; it hit her in a tender place.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to that kid, Kare.” Frank shook his head, chuckling, as he came back inside.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if she wasn’t half in love with you before, she is  _ now _ .”

“Ah, well she’s a good kid.” Karen paused, packing up her bag. “She’s got a good dad.” There was a touch of melancholy in her voice, and Frank knew immediately where her head had been.

“Hey.” He reached out, squeezing her upper arm gently for a moment. “Worried about your dad?”

“Yeah.” Karen scrubbed a hand down her face. “I just haven’t seen him in so long. And if the sound of his voice can send me into a panic, I’m worried about what will happen when he’s  _ there _ , in the flesh.”

“Well, you’ll do what we practiced and you’ll be okay.” In the years following the shooting, Frank had suffered a touch of PTSD—mostly violent nightmares that had him waking up in a cold sweat, panting and afraid. Or moments, when he heard a loud, unexpected noise, where his brain went into fight-or-flight mode. It wasn’t severe, and it didn’t happen often, but it was enough of a problem that he’d eventually sought help. Curtis had given him a number of exercises, mostly for breathing and focus, to help stem off the panic whenever it set in. He’d been sharing them with Karen, trying to give her a safety net in case things went sideways with her dad.

“Yeah, I—” Karen sighed. “I’m just filled with this sense of dread. I know it might sound stupid, or juvenile, but I’m scared.”

It came on suddenly and strongly—the urge to hold her. Frank felt his muscles preparing to move—practically aching with the need to grab her up—and he tamped down on the sensation.  But it was difficult, especially when she was standing there, looking so lost. Tough, fierce, passionate Karen, made to feel small and vulnerable. His heart was in his throat.

“Uh, I don’t wanna overstep here, Kare.” He looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I could go with you.”

Her eyes widened. “You could—?”

“Go with you.” Frank shrugged. “To your lunch.”

“You would do that?” There was a spark of something in her voice—awe; affection; surprise.

“I mean, yeah. If you wanted me to.”

Karen pinned him with a meaningful look, her eyes soft and full. Frank avoided her stare, feeling a little sheepish all of the sudden.

“Frank, I—.” She reached out and touched his shoulder, feather soft. “I want you to. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Then I’m there.”

Face open, and a little reverential, Karen held Frank’s gaze for a beat. Then, suddenly remembering something, her eyes narrowed. “Hey, you’re not just volunteering because you think it’ll stop me from yelling at you about the Ellison thing, right?”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “Didn’t think I could get out of that scolding for anything.”

“Good, because you can’t.” Karen crossed her arms over her chest, and Frank sighed.

“Can we at least do this at the diner? I like to have some coffee to drink while I’m being yelled at.”

The morning of her lunch with her father, Karen was more of a mess than she could have anticipated, second guessing every single decision, right down to her wardrobe. It was a Saturday, meaning she didn’t have to wear her work clothes. Which was a good thing, because if she did, her father would probably make some remark about how she thought she was such a hoity-toity New York girl now. Too good for a pair of jeans and a ratty t-shirt. But if she dressed too casually, he’d accuse her of putting no effort into her appearance. Probably ask her if she even owned anything appropriate for being seen in public. She tried on five different dresses and three pants + top combinations before settling on a sundress and cardigan.

After  _ that _ minor issue had been resolved, Karen began freaking out about the restaurant she had chosen for their meeting. She’d double-checked the menu ten times the night before, just to make sure that they were offering everything her father liked: T-bone steak, home fries, cornbread with chili, and even his particular brand of Scotch, just in case he decided on an afternoon drink. She was a little worried that the restaurant’s extensive salad menu would put her father off—that he’d accuse her of choosing a hippy, vegan place. But there was nothing else near his hotel that seemed like something he’d enjoy. So he’d have to make do with what he got.

Frank tried his best to calm her nerves, walking her through several breathing exercises as they sat in a corner booth, watching the door for the first sign of Paxton Page. But no amount of measured inhaling and exhaling could ready her for the feeling of seeing her father for the first time in years. It was like all the air of the room went whooshing out the moment he stepped over the threshold.

The Paxton Page of her memory was a giant of a man—broad shouldered, barrel-chested, with a thick crop of brown hair kept high and tight. Ramrod straight and virile—very much the picture of good ol’ American masculinity. And while the Paxton Page who walked through the door of the restaurant still had his sharp, keen, blue eyes, that was the only similarity. Dressed in brown corduroys and a blue flannel shirt, he looked like an old man: sparse grey hair, poor posture, skin wrinkled and thin like rice paper. He’d aged decades in a handful of years. It was uncomfortable, seeing a man who was her father, but  _ not _ her father; a stranger wearing the skin of someone familiar.

And it was a kind of blinding sadness that gripped her, watching him shuffle in on orthopedic shoes. Looking like a man whose shoulders were too weak to carry much of anything. She’d prepared herself for rage—for hatred and revulsion. Made plans for how to deal with the hurt and guilt and desperation that seemed to claw at her every time she thought about her father. She’d even prepared for panic—for a reoccurrence of the feeling she’d suffered that night outside of the diner with Frank. But she hadn’t prepared for the bone-deep sorrow that flooded her veins. Tunneled long, dark fingers into her brain.

There was a sense of loss—of mourning—that she found she couldn’t easily explain. Grief for so many things: the death of a childhood hero, the loss of her mother, the cruelty that had eaten her father from the inside out.  The feeling made a home in the base of her skull--had her holding back heaving breaths. She could see now, as her father caught sight of her and began to head her way, that he wasn’t a powerful, terrifying monster of a person. Or, at least, he wasn’t anymore. But rather he was an unhappy, bitter, old man with nothing but the worst years of his life left to live.

Karen and Frank both stood as Paxton Page approached, a look on his face somewhere between bored and put-out. She didn’t know that she’d expected anything else.

“Karen.” He nodded his head at her, and it was his only greeting. Not even an attempt at an embrace or a “good to see you.”

“Dad.” She responded in kind.

“Didn’t know you’d be bringing a friend.” His gaze darted to Frank, a touch severe.

“Hello Mr. Page, I’m—”

“I know who you are, boy. You fight like you have the Devil at your ass.” It was all he said, like there was nothing else to discuss about the subject. Impatiently, he looked around, a faint frown of disapproval pulling at the corners of his mouth. “We gonna sit?”

“Uh, yeah—yes.” Karen gestured for him to take his place across from her, before lowering into her own seat. Frank slid in next to her. There was a moment of awkward, tense silence, in which Karen rubbed sweaty palms down her thighs.

“You know, it’s not generally polite to invite a guest without advance warning, Karen.” Paxton unfolded his napkin, placing it on his lap.

“Sorry—last minute thing.” Her back stiffened. There was an echo of a memory reverberating in the back of her mind. That voice—it was the way she remembered him speaking to her mother. The thought was disquieting.

“I taught you better than that. It’s very rude.”

“Yes sir.” Karen wanted to smack herself.  _ Yes sir?  _ What the fuck was that about?

“I invited myself along.” Frank cut in, bumping his knee against Karen’s under the table. “It’s not her fault.”

“Well.” Not acknowledging that Frank had spoken, Paxton turned to look around the restaurant, grimacing. “This place looks fruity. You don’t need this many flowers everywhere to eat a meal. And I’m pretty sure the host who pointed me this way was gay.”

Karen bit her tongue, fists clenching. Her natural instinct was to bite back—to speak up when someone was being terrible and ignorant. But with her father, she knew, there was no point. All it would do was turn the afternoon into a fist fight. So instead she changed the subject.

“You watched Frank’s matches, Dad?”

“Course I did.” Paxton turned to Frank. “You dating my daughter?” No preamble—no subtlety—no attempt at smoothly changing the subject. He just blurted it out.

“Uh,” Frank darted his eyes to Karen. “No sir. We’re just friends.”

“Good.” Paxton nodded. “You don’t want to marry a career woman. They don’t know how to take care of their husbands. Too busy running around doing whatever the hell. Karen doesn’t even know how to cook, you know that? Be lucky if she ever finds herself a man.”

“Don’t really think that’s at the top of Karen’s list of priorities.”

Paxton ignored Frank again and continued speaking. “Women these days aren’t like they should be. Holding down big office jobs and wearing their power pantsuits. Getting divorced and leaving their children with foreign nannies. Never would have happened in my day.” He shook his head, almost sadly.

“You know, most people would argue gender equality is a good thing.” Karen  _ just  _ managed to keep the fire from her tone.

“There she goes.” Paxton rolled his eyes, sending Frank a conspiratory look. “The little man-hating feminist.”

“That’s not--” Karen started to reply, but was cut off.

“You know, she was always like this. Probably my fault really; I was too indulgent. Raised her and my son the same way—made her think she could do what he did. Let her run wild.” Karen was breathing deeply now, concentrating on keeping the sharp words in her mouth. Her father was chatting away at Frank as though Karen didn’t exist. “You got kids, Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’ve got a girl, you need to learn from my mistakes. Raise her to know her place. Or she’ll turn out like this one.” He pointed at his daughter, who was swallowing so many vicious retorts, her belly was full of sharp, painful things.

Frank’s jaw ticked dangerously, but he was saved from responding by the arrival of the waitress. Karen breathed a sigh of relief as her father’s attention was focused somewhere else, even if only for a moment. Frank reached out under the table and put his hand over hers—briefly—a signal of comfort.

Just as she had expected, her father ordered the steak. And just as she’d feared, he grumbled about it the whole time he ate. It wasn’t rare enough; the meat in New York City wasn’t as good as the meat in Vermont; the cut wasn’t right. The man couldn’t be happy for one god damn minute.

Karen could almost feel herself disappearing into the back of the booth, trying to make herself shrink into nothing—fade away—as her father spoke. He dominated the entire conversation, talking in a constant stream of toxic shit, about how awful the drive down was, how much he hated New York City, how crowded and loud cities were. When he wasn’t complaining, he was telling crude jokes Karen had heard a million times before (Why does the bride always wear white? Because it is good for the dishwasher to match the stove and refrigerator). She was exceedingly glad for Frank’s company, as he was the one who responded to all of Paxton’s ramblings, offering “uh huhs” and “no sirs” when appropriate.

She couldn’t find the energy to engage him if she tried; she was practically crawling out of her skin, ready to get away. How could she have ever idolized this man? With his belligerence and close-mindedness? How could she have looked up to him as a hero?

She managed to stay out of the entire conversation, until about an hour into the meal, when her father decided to drag Kevin’s name into things.

“Kevin’s piece of shit truck is parked out front. I peeled off all those pansy-ass bumper stickers he had on the back. Didn’t want anyone to see me driving around with those and think I was a fruit.”

As it had been with Karen, going off to college had been a transformative experience for her brother. Once away from the toxicity of their father’s house, he had become something of an activist. Anti-war, pro-choice, pro-gun control, anti-Bush (all the things their father hated); he’d joined every social justice group on campus he could find. The back of his truck had become almost a collage of his liberal ideologies, which Paxton Page had absolutely fucking hated.

“You know, there was something not quite right with that boy,” Karen’s father continued. “Was coming home from an anti-war protest with a friend when he got in his accident,” he turned, speaking to Frank now. “Died in a car that had ‘Fuck Bush’ written on the side. That was the worst part about it all—my son, dying a god damn hippie.”

As soon as her father had mentioned Kevin, Karen had found herself bubbling into a quiet fury. She’d been mostly-silent throughout their lunch, holding in every harsh, explosive word that sat on her tongue, but she couldn’t do it anymore.

“ _ That _ was the worst part of your son dying, Dad?” Her voice was quiet—deadly—and it had both Frank and Paxton looking at her in surprise. She’d been so unobtrusive all meal, the sudden showing of passion was unexpected. “ _ That _ was what broke your heart the most? Not that the world lost a kind, intelligent, gentle soul, but that he died while believing something different from what  _ you _ believe?”

“You watch your tone with me, Karen.” Her father’s words came out as a warning. Severe and cold. “Kevin was—”

“No.” Karen cut him off, sharp. “You don’t get to say his name again. Not in front of me; you don’t get to say his name.”

There was a poisonous silence, in which Frank wasn’t sure what to do. Karen was practically vibrating next to him.

“Who do you think you are,  _ little girl _ ? Ordering me around?” Paxton, too, got quieter. Speaking low and hard.

“Who do I think I am?” A chuckle that sounded like the embodiment of rancor itself left Karen’s mouth. “I’m the only one out of the two of us here who really  _ knew _ Kevin. And I am the only one he truly loved.”

“You watch what you say to me.” There was spittle bubbling on Paxton’s lips, as they twisted into a sneer.

“No. You listen here. When Kevin died, he  _ despised _ you. You need to know that. For what you did to Mom, he  _ despised _ you.” Karen was leaning forward, speaking quick and intense. “You do not get to talk that way about him now that he is gone. You do not get to put all of your bullshit on his name.”

Frank looked back and forth between the two Pages, wanting to do something, but unsure of what.

“You know, Karen, you were my biggest mistake.” The words were like fire sputtering from her father’s mouth. Sulfurous and heated. “Letting you grow up like a little boy. And now you think you’re  _ something _ , with your fancy TV job and your fancy fucking restaurants.” He gestured at their surroundings. “But you are  _ nothing _ , girl. You got too much of your mom in you. Too much of her weakness.”

Karen was shaking. Her light trembling had grown in intensity until she was a tense and buzzing mess pressed against Frank’s side. And that was it. Frank was reacting before he quite knew what was happening.

“Hey. You say another word to her and you’re done, you hear me? Another word.” There was something in Frank’s voice that brokered no argument. It was gravelly and firm—a rumble coming from deep in his throat. The voice of a dangerous man. “If you think Karen Page is weak, then clearly you don’t know your own daughter.”  Paxton was staring at him, the sneer still on his face, but he didn’t open his mouth. So Frank continued. “You know how much bullshit this woman puts up with every day? You know how much she deals with from men like you? Men who think they’re more than they are? How much she has to fight for every fucking thing she gets? And she still looks at the world with compassion. She still  _ cares _ . That’s strength. And you’d know nothing about it.”

Nobody spoke. They just stared at each other—eyes holding hurt and anger and fear and resentment. Frank pulled out his wallet, throwing some bills on the table. “I’ll get the keys from your dad, Karen. You get out of here.”

The thank you that slipped from her lips was so quiet, Frank barely heard it. She slid out of the booth, without even sparing a backward glance at her dad, and was gone.

“She’s not worth the fuss, boy.” Paxton spat, as soon as Karen was out of sight.

“You’ve spewed a lot of stupid ass bullshit in the past two hours, but that’s the most wrong you’ve been all day.” Frank grabbed the keys from on top of the table and left. That was the only thing to do with men like Paxton Page—leave.

Frank climbed in to the driver’s side of Kevin’s truck; Karen was in no state of mind to get behind the wheel. They were both too amped to do much of anything, really—adrenaline from the confrontation with Paxton still running high.

In fact, they sat on the street, holed up in the truck—silently—for about twenty minutes before even shifting into “drive.” Karen with her head between her knees, her hands interlocking behind her skull, breathing deeply. Trying her damnedest not to cry. Frank acting as her silent sentinel—letting her do what she needed to do—breathing along with her. Syncing his inhales and exhales with her own. At one point, he’d placed a warm hand on the center of her back, and it had been too much for her—the tears broke free.

She cried—not beautiful, feminine tears that slip down the cheeks like little rivulets, leaving a glistening trail in their wake. But heaving, ugly tears. The kind that shake the body with their force. She couldn’t say exactly why she was crying, but it felt like it was for the whole world. Like she’d opened her heart up to an infinite amount of sadness—like the collective hurt and anger of generations of bodies was flowing through her. Her pain was so old; her sorrow so vast, that there was no way it could be just hers alone. There was just no way.

Frank rubbed small circles on her back for a long time, gentle and soothing, until he felt her breathing slow beneath his palm.

As Karen began to calm, a singular—and rather out of place—thought drifted through her mind. This was the first time she’d ever cried in front of Frank. Karen wasn’t much of a crier, and she never had been. Not that she didn’t feel things deeply, or that she wasn’t in touch with her own emotions, just that she’d grown up with the expectation that crying would get her berated. Seen as a failing. So even when she  _ did  _ cry, she did it alone. Where nobody could witness her breaking down. She’d expected crying in front of Frank to feel unnatural—to bring with it feelings of embarrassment or shame. But it just felt good; to let everything out in the presence of someone she trusted. Someone she knew would never see breaking apart as a weakness.

“I’m sorry, Karen.” The words were low and gravelly as Frank spoke. And Karen swore she could feel the resounding vibrations against her skin.

“Why are you sorry?” Her voice was watery, muffled by the fact that her head was still between her knees.

“Because you don’t deserve that shit.”

“I know.” Karen sat up straight, scrubbing a hand over her face, wiping away snot and tears. “I know.”

“That man. He doesn’t know you.” The anger in Frank’s voice was touching. It was so genuine. And on  _ her _ behalf.

“I know.” Karen nodded, then used the sleeve of her cardigan to wipe her cheeks dry. She didn’t even want to think about how red her face was. “Thank you, Frank. For—just for everything.”

“Don’t thank me, Kare. I’m just glad you didn’t have to do that alone.”

“Yeah, me too.” Staring straight ahead, Karen reached out blindly to grab ahold of his hand as it sat on the gearshift. She squeezed. “What you did for me today—being there—it was more than I deserve.”

“Hey, no.” Frank’s voice was serious—firm. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

Karen shook her head, her mind clearing. “You’re a good man.”

He wanted to argue—to say that he wasn’t really. That he was only a good man with her; that she brought it out of him. But instead he just squeezed her hand back, and let it slip from his grasp.

“Home?” He asked.

“Home.” She nodded.

He didn’t want to leave her at the front door, still worried about her peace of mind, so he invited himself up into her apartment. It was the first time he’d ever been in her space, and he expected to feel a little out of place. But he didn’t. (When he saw the two pots of white roses on her window sill, his heart thudded powerfully in his chest, and a flood of affection hit his system).

He texted Curtis to cancel their plans for training that evening, and instead he spent the rest of the afternoon on the floor of Karen’s living room, watching classic movies on TCM. They were mostly silent—just letting each other’s company be enough—but sometimes they talked. About nothing. And everything. A thousand little words building bridges between then, strung out like delicate red threads travelling from the cracks in his chest to the cracks in her own.

When Frank left that night, Karen lay in bed staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. She felt strange—like her rib cage had broken open at some point in the day, and had yet to close. And every deep, dark thing it had been holding inside of its recesses for so long was suddenly set free. To roam and wander and leave her in the dark, dissolving into the night. It was a terrifying feeling—and freeing. Like the beginning of some kind of resolution.

It felt a little like healing.

She pressed a palm to her sternum, and sought out her heartbeat with the pads of her fingers. It was steady—despite all she had been through that day. It was steady. And that was something beautiful; something to celebrate. A minor victory over all the things in the world that could have convinced her pulse not to pound.

As she felt the thumping underneath her fingertips, it began to take on a new shape—a new sound. Karen could almost hear his name in every pump of blood—hear his voice deep and low with every contraction of her heart.

Frank.

She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what this was.

She was in love.

And it was big this time. So, so big.


	7. Coming Together AKA "Curtis is Gonna Hate What We Did to His Wall Bag"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with this. I think I skimped on the editing and rushed to get it out tonight. But whatcha gonna ddo?
> 
> Also massive smut alert.

In the weeks following Karen and Frank’s lunch with her father, things between them seemed to deepen—take on a new and heavy edge. Every moment passed in each other’s company began to feel weighty, filled with a kind of meaning they couldn’t name. As though the experience of bumping up against Karen’s vulnerability had tightened that invisible red thread holding them together.

The two of them had always had… _something_. Something ineffable and unique; a rare bond that was difficult to explain—that maybe _had_ no explanation. It had first made its presence known all those years ago, when Frank and Karen were barely more than acquaintances. The instant attraction; two magnets zinging together, barreling through everything in their path. It was there in the way he so easily seemed to lean into her; to trust her; to grow softer in her company. In the underlying current of electricity pulsating between them—a vibrating awareness impossible to ignore.

But _now_ the thing between them was just ridiculous. Intense and obvious in a way that made everyone who saw them together feel a bit like voyeurs, observing something meant to be private. How Frank was constantly tracking Karen with his eyes, unable to fight the hypnotic draw of her presence; the almost fluid manner in which they orbited each other, two planets caught up in a gravitational field older than time itself; the low, deep tone that his voice took on when he spoke to her—like the gravel in his throat was for her alone. All of it was so unbelievably heady. Choking the air thick with a feeling that tasted like anticipation. Quite frankly, it was almost too much to bear.

“If those two don’t do something about whatever’s happening between them soon, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. This is ridiculous.” Curtis took a large gulp from his water bottle, eyeing Frank and Karen through the large window in his office. They were leaning against the ropes of the far practice ring, heads bent together, talking about God knows what.

David looked up from the press packet he was reading, removing his glasses and squinting in their direction as well. “I think it’s cute. Our boy’s in love and he doesn’t even know it yet.”

“Cute?” Curtis scoffed. “It’s awful. I feel like I’m watching the first hour of a Nicholas Sparks movie on repeat every time I look at them. I’m half afraid I’m gonna walk into this gym one day to find them getting busy in one of my rings.”

“Ah, you’re just pissed about it because you’re single.” David laughed, leaning back in his chair until the front two legs came off the ground. “Me? I don’t mind so much, because I’ve got a lovely lady to go home to. So all this sexual tension,” he gestured toward Frank and Karen, “isn’t that bad. Not their fault you only got your hand for company.”

Before David could react, Curtis’s foot shot out, kicking the raised legs of his chair and almost sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Woah, hey!” David stuck his arms out for balance, wobbling a bit before slamming the front legs back onto the ground. All of the papers he had been reading flew out of his lap, scattering across the floor. “You trying to kill me?”

“Just get you to shut up.” Curtis shook his head, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Well that’s never gonna happen. You can’t silence me!”

“I’m beginning to realize that, David.”

The sound of Frank’s deep, booming laugh drew their attention. Through the grimy window, they saw their friend with his head thrown back, Karen standing at his side, making some wild, rapid hand gestures. Clearly telling an intense story.

“Gotta admit, though, it is nice to see Frank like that again.” David jerked his head in their direction, voice quiet—thoughtful.

“Yeah. It is.” Running a hand over his jaw, Curtis felt his mind casting back, of its own volition, to memories he didn’t like to visit all that often.

Memories of upstate New York.

The two years after Frank’s shooting had been really tough going. An incredibly dark period, for everyone involved. Frank didn’t like to talk about it all that much—which made sense, as some of the mental wounds he’d incurred weren’t the kind to heal cleanly—but both David and Curtis knew that there had been moments out on Lake Placid when he had felt like giving up. Not only on his boxing career, but on _everything_. All of existence. Especially in the early months, when just getting up and walking around the cabin had been a practice in patience and enduring pain.

Curtis, especially, had seen the worst of Frank’s struggle. Unlike David, he’d been on Lake Placid, right by Frank’s side, the entire time. Had borne witness to the way that desolation and fear and self-doubt had just about chewed the man up from the inside out. Left him a raw, fragmented thing—untethered from the world. There had been nights, too many to count, where Curtis had woken up to hear him screaming and struggling in his bed, fighting nightmares without names.

It was Frankie Jr. and Lisa who kept him going—their weekly visits a reminder that he had something to fight for. To live for. That his life was not just his own.

And, strangely enough, the other constant that had held him steady was Karen.

Watching her WBA segments somehow seemed to relieve the profound loneliness that had made a home in his body. Curtis didn’t exactly know why (he’d never really broached the subject with his friend) but he had a few guesses. Maybe seeing her on TV reminded Frank of a time when he was better—whole and unbroken—before the incident. Made him think of bright lights and roaring crowds and his hands curled into fists; made him feel like he could be that person again. Or maybe watching Karen scratch and claw her way to gain respect in an industry that didn’t want to give it to her served as a reminder of how strong and indefatigable the human spirit truly _was_. Helped him feel like he could fight his own battles.

Whatever the reason, all Curtis knew was that Karen had meant a lot to Frank.

And while Frank had made it through—had come out the other side of things still breathing—he was not without his fair share of scars. When a man stares down demons, he rarely returns unscathed. Even after his body had fully healed, other parts of him were much slower to mend. It had been a while since Curtis had seen Frank smile the way he did with Karen. Carefree and genuine.

“Hey, you still got those tapes of Murdock’s bout with Allen?” Frank’s head suddenly appearing in the office doorway shook Curtis from his contemplation.

“Uh, yeah. Somewhere around here.” He gestured to the stacks of tapes that littered his desk, as well as the tops of his filing cabinets, covering almost every available flat surface. “Why?”

“Karen was re-watching it last night and noticed something interesting in the way Murdock’s style seems to shift after that moment in the second round when Allen lands his right hook.” Karen popped up over Frank’s shoulder with a small wave. “We were wondering if we could take a closer look.

“Yeah, sure.” Curtis glanced down at his watch. “But you’re gonna have to do it without me. I promised I’d grab dinner with my pops tonight and I gotta run. He’s always trying to get that early bird special.”

“Me too.” David stood up, gathering his papers and shoving them haphazardly into his briefcase. It was a wonder that man was ever able to keep track of anything. “Sarah’s got a PTA meeting and I’m on dinner duty. Turns out kids have to eat _every_ night. Gotta whip up a healthy meal for ‘em.”

“So re-heated mac and cheese?” Frank quirked a grin.

“My specialty.” David clapped a hand on Frank’s shoulder, then turned to Karen. “I guess you’re gonna be in charge of this guy tonight. Keep him in line.”

“Don’t I always?” Karen raised a brow.                                                             

“You sure do.” Shaking his head, David hoisted his briefcase up his shoulder. “See you two tomorrow.”

“And don’t you leave my office a mess.” Curtis, too, was packed up and ready to go. “You know how much I like my organized chaos.”

“Roger that.” Karen bobbed her head.

As the two men left, Karen and Frank found themselves alone in the office.

A little prickling of awareness began to spark off in the back of Karen’s skull—Frank took up so much space in the little room, she could practically feel the heat from his body radiating into the cool air. It was almost electric. Ever since the moment that she’d realized she was capital L “in Love” with him, Karen’s senses had been going a little haywire every time they were in close proximity. It reminded her a bit of a demonstration she’d seen years ago, in a physics course at Columbia—two Tesla coils with a high voltage current flying between them. She’d always been attracted to the man (she wasn’t blind), but now her attraction took on the feeling of a physical _ache_. An absence; a need; a gut-deep longing that had her dying to crawl out of her skin. I was such lovely torture. Being so close to him—breathing him in—even if that was all she could do.

“So that tape.” Frank’s gruff voice had her attention in an instant, and he began rifling through the pile on Curtis’s desk.

“Yes, the tape.” Karen joined him, pushing aside the responsive feeling that shot up her spine every time her arm brushed against his.

 

“There! Pause it!” Karen jumped up, pointing at the screen. She took a few steps forward, bending down and squinting. The TV in Curtis’s office was on the small side, so she had to get extra close to be sure she was seeing what she thought she was. “Rewind.”

Frank followed her instructions, concentrating as well.

“What am I looking at?”

“That moment—right there.” Karen jabbed her finger at the image of Murdock. “He does this little shift from one foot to the other, then when he comes back at Allen it’s with more of a stable, planted kind of move. He’s not as light on his feet anymore.”

“Okay, yeah. I get what you mean.” Frank had to tilt his head to see around Karen, who was blocking most of the TV. “Interesting. How’d you catch that?”

“Insomnia.” Karen turned around with a half-shrug. “When I can’t sleep, I watch these videos in slow motion. It helps my brain shut off a little.”

“Hmm.” Frank rewound the tape again, playing the moment in question from the beginning. Then rewinding again. And again. Leaning forward, thinking.

While he stared at the screen, deep in contemplation, Karen took a step back with her hands on her hips. She rolled her shoulders, relieving an ache that had been with her all day, and glanced around Curtis’s office. She’d been in the small, packed room a thousand times before, but every time she found something new and strange to look at. Curtis was a bit of a hoarder, but at least he hoarded interesting things—odd pieces of boxing ephemera saved up from his great-grandfather’s days running the gym, or else rescued from second hand shops. He’d almost built up his own miniature boxing museum with all the trinkets he’d acquired: a framed napkin supposedly signed by Joe Louis; a deflated speed bag owned by Roy Jones Jr.; a medicine ball that had been used on the set of _Rocky II;_ a menu from Jack Dempsie’s restaurant. Ridiculous and obscure little things.

But at that moment, Karen’s eye was caught by a stack of yearbooks shoved way back on the bookshelf behind Curtis’s desk. She’d never noticed them before; they didn’t look that old, unlike the rest of the brick-a-brack and clutter. While Frank was distracted with the Murdock tape, she reached out and grabbed one. When she opened it, she almost gasped out loud. It was filled with autographs and notes addressed to Curtis—it was his actual yearbook. Which meant that it was _Frank’s_ yearbook, too.

Glancing over her shoulder, making sure that Frank’s attention was still elsewhere, Karen flipped to the back few pages. Just as she’d hoped, there was a directory of student names in alphabetical order, listing the pages on which their picture appeared. Tracking her finger down the first column, she found “Castle, Frank,” followed by a rather long series of numbers. She turned to the first page listed and almost fell on her ass. There, smack in the middle of a photo collage, was a picture of 18 year-old Frank with his arm slung casually around David Lieberman, mean-mugging at the camera. Karen pressed a finger to the photo, a slow smile working its way onto her face. There were parts of young Frank that were painfully familiar—his eyes the same soulful brown; the set of his jaw tense and unrelenting—but there were other parts of him unrecognizable. The long, curly hair and the unbroken nose, for example. It was almost like looking at a funhouse mirror version of her Frank.

“Holy shit.” Karen whispered to herself, giddy. Frank’s head snapped up.

“What are you—” His eyes landed on the book in her hands, and he groaned. “Jesus. Why does Curtis keep those things in here?” He reached out, as if to take it from her hands, but Karen reacted quickly, dodging the attempt.

“Frank Castle.” She wheeled around to face him, clutching the yearbook to her chest. “This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Are you wearing a Black Flag t-shirt in this picture?” She held it out toward him, keeping a tight grip in case he tried to pry it from her fingers. Shifting forward for a better look, he squinted at the photo— _God_ , he looked young.

“Yeah.”

“You were into Black Flag?”

“Oh yeah. Henry Rollins screaming about rage and feeling like a fuck up? What teenage boy wouldn’t be into that?”

“Wow.” Karen stared at the image for a moment longer, before collapsing back into her seat. Ignoring Frank’s gaze, she flipped to the next page listed by his name. It was even better.

“Oh god.” She doubled over, practically wheezing. “Did you wear JNCO jeans when you were in high school?”

Frank succeeded in snatching the yearbook from Karen’s hands while she was incapacitated with laughter. “Everybody was wearing them, Page. They were cool.”

“I mean, everyone at _my_ high school was wearing them too. Didn’t mean _I_ ever did.”

Frank just grunted, the tips of his ears going red. He made as if to toss the book into the far corner of the room, and Karen launched herself forward to stay his arm.

“Hey—give it back. Give it back.” She reached out, trying to reclaim her treasure from his hands. But Frank held it just out of her grasp. “I promise I won’t laugh anymore.”

“Don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll let you look at _my_ yearbook. I have it at home.” Karen tried for earnest, but her eyes were alight with mischief. “I even think there’s a picture of me with green hair, braces, and a fake nose ring.” Frank stared at her for a moment, unsure, before sighing in resignation. He could never say no to her—it was a battle he would lose every time.

“Fine.” He tossed it back her way. “But you laugh again and it’s gone.”

“Okay, okay.” Karen was already lost in the photographs and captions of Frank’s teen years, eyes scanning greedily for more embarrassing photos. She kept her promise, though. She didn’t laugh—but it was a struggle. There was something so ridiculous about seeing serious, powerful, tough Frank as a dweeby little teenager with ears way (way) too big for his head.

He scooted closer, leaning over her shoulder to watch her perusal. It had been a long time since he’d taken a walk down memory lane.

“There are so many pictures of you in here. Were you really popular?” Karen ran a finger down Frank’s senior photo. Like everyone else, he was dressed in a rented tux, smiling rigidly for the camera.

“Nah.” Frank’s voice was very close in Karen’s ear, and when she turned her head, her nose almost brushed his own. He jolted back, a nervous smile quirking his lips. “Maria was on the yearbook staff. She took photos.”

“Ah. So you got some preferential treatment, huh?”

“Yeah.” Frank shrugged. “Didn’t want it, though. I wasn’t exactly itching to get in front of the lens.”

“Hmm.” Karen turned a few pages; found Maria’s senior photo. She looked exactly the same—full smile; laughing eyes. Beautiful. “You two met in high school, right?”

“Yeah. Freshman year.”

“Love at first sight?”

Frank paused, a little unsure about the direction the conversation was going. He and Karen talked about a _lot_ with each other, but they didn’t really talk about Maria. He couldn’t say why—or, he probably _could_ , if he thought about it closely enough—but there was a part of him that was a little hesitant to discuss her with Karen. That felt awkward. But it was a ridiculous feeling to have, he told himself—he’d confided so much of himself in Karen that shying away from the subject of his ex was asinine.

Noticing the pause, Karen’s lips tightened in the slightest.

“I don’t mean to pry or anything.” She sounded a bit contrite, and Frank didn’t like the almost nervous look in her eye. He never wanted her to feel edgy around him—unsure of her footing.

“No, it’s okay. I was just thinking.” He gave her a reassuring grin. “It definitely wasn’t love at first sight. Not even close.”

“Really?” Karen shouldn’t have been surprised—Frank didn’t seem like the kind of person to go in for so saccharine a notion.

“We hated each other.” Leaning back in his chair, Frank crossed his arms. “She was this goody-two-shoes. Total teacher’s pet; always raising her hand in class and volunteering for the dance committee or running for student council. I was more about the destruction of property at that age. And seeing how much school I could skip before the truancy officer showed up at my house.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard enough of your high school stories to know you were a bad boy. Makes sense, with the Black Flag.” Karen was absolutely absorbed by every word out of Frank’s mouth. She loved when he spoke about his childhood; every little insight into who he was felt like a treasure to be cupped gently in her hands.

“I don’t know about _bad_. Just…bored.” Frank ran a hand over his jaw. “When I was 18, my dad was already 58. I mean, I lived in a house where every piece of furniture had fifty doilies on it, and everyone was in bed by 9, y’know? I didn’t grow up playing catch with pops, or going to the park; my parents were too tired by the time I came along. I just had all this pent-up energy and nowhere to put it.”

“So you think that’s why you acted out?”

“I guess I didn’t ever think of it as acting out. It was just…relieving all the pressure inside of me. You know how teenagers are. You never really think about shit—you just _do_ it.”

“Yeah.” Karen looked back down at the photo of Maria. “So how did you and Maria go from hating each other to…not?”

“Papa Hoyle got ahold of me; started straightening me out a little.” Frank leaned over, flicking the pages until he landed on a picture of teenage Curtis posing in front of the school seal, wearing a letterman jacket. He tapped the photo. “Started hanging with Curtis; getting my shit together a little. Senior year, Maria got assigned to tutor me in pre-cal.”

“Oh, I see. So you got a little hot for teacher?” Karen nudged Frank’s knee with her own.

“Yeah, I guess.” He huffed a laugh. “A little _too_ hot. About three months after she stared tutoring me, we found out she was pregnant with Lisa.”

“Ah. Right.” Karen nodded—she’d done the math in her head. Had figured Frank was about 18 or 19 when Lisa had come along “You two have a shotgun wedding?”

“Yeah. Almost literally. Her dad was ready to skin me alive.”

Karen was absolutely on the edge of her seat. In the past, whenever Frank spoke about his childhood, the conversation had centered around stories concerning David and Curtis: the time Frank tried to spike the punch bowl at the freshman formal, but at the last second David replaced the flask in his jacket with orange juice to keep him from getting into trouble; the night Curtis dragged Frank along to his crush’s house so he could serenade her with Marvin Gaye under her window; the year that David refused to wear shoes to school, because he thought it made him spiritual (he lasted until early November, when frostbite suddenly became a very real concern). Karen had heard these stories what felt like a million times.

But Frank actually opening up about Maria was new territory. It just wasn’t something he was used to, digging into that area of his life. And Karen, always wary of pushing him too far, hadn’t really asked.

“I don’t know what it is with dads and teenage girls.” Karen shook her head. “Mine was terrible about boys. You know, in addition to all the _other_ ways he was terrible. Nobody ever asked me out in high school because he had such a reputation for being a hardass.”

“ _Nobody_ asked you out in high school?” The surprise in Frank’s voice was genuine. He didn’t imagine much of anything would have kept _him_ from pursuing Karen if they had gone to school together. Those eyes and those legs? Teenage Frank would have been a goner. (Adult Frank, too).

“Not a single person.” Karen shrugged. “But I didn’t mind too much. Nobody really worth my time there anyway.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Karen bit her lip. She wanted to ask about Maria—pry into whatever it was that had gone wrong between them—but wasn’t sure if she could. If that was overstepping some kind of boundary they wouldn’t be able to come back from. Frank watched her—the indecision flashing across her face. He knew her well enough to guess where her mind was going, and he was filled with a feeling akin to guilt. He hated that she thought there was anything she couldn’t ask him about; hated that he’d made her feel that way.

“You, uh—” he shifted in his seat. “You’re wondering about what happened with Maria, huh?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Little bit.” Frank gestured at her face. “You get this tiny wrinkle between your brows when you’re working yourself up to ask me something you’re not sure about.” Karen reached up and touched her forehead, looking sheepish.

“I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it that’s totally okay. I was just curious.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Shifting again, Frank’s knee bumped against Karen’s. “I don’t mind.” He’d come this far—there was no point in avoiding the conversation any more.

“So…what _did_ happen?”

“Uh—I think the thing that usually happens when people marry young. We changed too much. Didn’t grow together. Wanted different things.”

“Like what?”

“Maria wanted more stability. The house in the suburbs; the country club kind of thing. A husband who worked in finance or marketing—a job that wouldn’t get him sent to the hospital once a month.” Frank looked away, thinking, remembering. “I offered to quit boxing. Go back to school. Be that guy. She wouldn’t let me; said it wouldn’t make me happy. She was right.”

“Wow.” Karen flipped back to the page with Maria’s photo. “That’s a rare kind of selflessness.”

“Yeah. Maria always knew what was best for me, even when I didn’t.”

“That’s something special. There was—” she paused, unsure of how to ask the question, “—was no way to make it work? Between you?”

“No.” Frank shook his head. “We tried; we really did. Just grew so far apart we kinda fell out of love, I guess. I mean, when we got married, I had no idea who I even was. And neither did she.”

“I get that.” Karen nodded. “You’re so lucky that you’re still friends, though. That’s a really beautiful thing.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s smile was small—soft. “It is.”

There was a beat of silence, and Karen stared down at Maria’s picture in the yearbook—bright smile, gleaming eyes. A young idealist if she’d ever seen one. And she wondered if Maria ever thought, at 18 years-old, that she would be divorced with two children by the time she was 30. Karen cast back in her mind, trying to remember what _she’d_ wanted for her life when she was a senior in high school—who she thought she’d become. She couldn’t really recall; the memories of those years had yellowed and frayed to the point where they were difficult to hold onto for too long. One thing was for certain: young Karen never could have imagined that she’d be deeply, irrevocably in love with a professional boxer. With Frank Castle.

Frank was watching her, eyes dark and thoughtful, as a little grin pulled at the corners of her lips.

“Love is wild, you know? We spend our whole lives trying to find it; trying to explain it; trying to recover from it. And I’m beginning to think it’s all a lost cause.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Karen bobbed her head, tracing her fingertip over the curve of Maria’s smile. “I mean, think of how many poets and artists and musicians have tried to explain love, right? To capture it and make sense of it. And in the thousands of years human beings have existed, nobody’s gotten it right. Nobody can agree what it even is, or where it comes from, or how to define it. It’s like grasping at water.”

Frank nodded, considering. Karen ran a hand through her hair, staring at something far away.

“You know, there’s this little part of me—a small, quiet part of me—that still loves my father. Or maybe, that doesn’t love him, but _remembers_ what it was like to love him. The impression of that feeling is still there. Even after all he’s done, all the pain and cruelty, it’s still there. No matter how hard I try to scrub it out and beat it down. _That’s_ how crazy love is.”

“Really?” Frank’s brow furrowed. He’d met the man—he’d heard the stories—seen the kind of wreckage he could make of Karen’s psyche. To still have love for someone like that? Frank couldn’t even begin to imagine how raw and tender a heart she had to have.

“I know. It’s irrational—illogical. But that’s what I’m saying; _love_ is illogical. I don’t think we’ll ever understand what makes one person love another person, no matter how hard we try. Or what makes two people fall out of love.” Karen gestured to Frank. “I almost think it’s just something that happens _to_ you, you know? You get no say in the matter.” The blue light of the television screen lit her face in stark relief—set her eyes to glowing. Wide and ethereal. Frank’s breath stuck in his throat.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

His heart was suddenly thudding very heavily against his ribcage. All this talk of love—it was igniting some little spark of recognition down deep in his chest. Stoking to life a small fire that had been building steadily since the day he’d first met Karen—heard her cursing and spitting venom out in the alleyway at Barclay’s. It warmed every corner of his being.

She was looking at him with so much meaning behind her eyes. Every square inch of flesh on Frank’s body prickled in response; flooding with a feeling akin to expectation. He became acutely aware of her slow, measured breathing at his side; how closely they were sitting next to each other. Her scent (sweat and detergent and remnants of the perfume she’d put on that morning) filled his lungs, causing his fingers to flex where they rested on his thighs. The urge to reach out and run them down Karen’s skin—any patch of skin—was difficult to control. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath.

 He had to do something to cut the tension; to change the atmosphere between them. Or else he was going to make a move he couldn’t take back. Bracing himself, he reached out to flick through the pages of the yearbook, landing on one near the back.

Karen glanced at him, confused, brow furrowed. But he just pointed at a photo in the upper right hand corner.

“Oh fuck.” She gasped, then was laughing with her head thrown back. Before her was a photograph of Frank, wearing a pair of overalls and an outrageously-patterned shirt like the Fresh fuckin’ Prince of Bellaire.

“Yeah, yeah.” Frank grumbled, turning slightly red. “Laugh it up.”

 

Two days later, Karen was still thinking about that conversation with Frank as she sat at her desk, eating lunch and staring off at nothing in particular. The way he’d looked at her as she’d talked about her father—the image was stuck in her mind. God, but those expressive, brown eyes cut her to the quick.

She knew that she loved him, in spite of how complicated and thorny the question of understanding love was, but she didn’t know what to do about it. How to deal with the feeling that burned hot in the pit of her stomach every time he looked at her. The way her heart settled, easy and warm, at just the sound of his voice.

“Hey, Kare. Mind if I join ya?”

She was dragged out of her thoughts by the question, and looked up to see Foggy standing in her doorway, holding a take-out container from Madam Fu’s. His usual order, probably—chicken lo mein with extra pork egg rolls.

“Uh yeah, sure.” Reaching out, Karen swiped a few haphazard stacks of paper to the side, clearing a space for him to put his food. “Haven’t seen you at all today. It’s been weird.”

“I know. I don’t like it.” He sat, digging out a pair of chopsticks from his bag. “Fray can’t take a joke. It’s killing me. Seriously.”

In the past week or so, Ellison had started clearing some of the smaller assignments from Karen’s schedule—an interview with a minor league coach, coverage of a college basketball game, a spot on doping in the majors—so that she could spend more time prepping for the Castle/Murdock match-up. He’d given all of her busy work to Anderson Fray, who was not happy about it, to say the least. Karen, who didn’t give two shits about Fray’s happiness, wouldn’t have spared second thought to the change in scheduling. Unfortunately, however, Ellison had also decided to loan out Foggy for the minor assignments, ostensibly to help ease the load on Fray’s own camera man.

“Can’t image what about Fray ever had you convinced the guy _could_ take a joke.” Karen stabbed at her salad. “I once heard him refer to _Seinfeld_ as ‘pop culture drivel.’”

“But I mean he _really_ can’t take a joke. Like at all. You hide _one_ hyper-realistic plastic snake in the guy’s glove box and he flips shit. Starts threatening to shove you out of the moving car.”

“Foggy!” Karen clapped a hand over her mouth, grinning.

“What?! The man’s a snake—I thought he’d like to see one of his brethren.”

“God. No wonder he hates us so much. We are insufferable.”

“Speak for yourself. _You_ may be insufferable, but _I’m_ an absolute dream.” Foggy slipped into an imperious tone, and Karen rolled her eyes.

“I have so many counterarguments to that statement, it would take a year to get through them all.”

Snorting, Foggy shook his head.

It was quiet for a moment, as they both concentrated on eating. The comfortable silence was broken when Karen’s phone chimed. She reached for it, swiping open the message, and couldn’t help but chuckle at what she saw. It was from Frank—a photo of Curtis wearing a t-shirt with Murdock’s face on it; he’d written “What’s the punishment for being a traitor?” underneath, followed by an emoji of a knife. (Karen thought it was unbelievably adorable that _Frank Castle_ used emojis.)

“Whatcha laughing at?” Foggy leaned forward, nosy, trying to get a glimpse at her screen.

“Just a funny text.” Karen slid her phone back into her pocket, making a mental note to reply later.

“Uh-huh,” Foggy watched her skeptically for a moment. “Let me guess—from Frank Castle?”

Her silence was confirmation enough.

“Hmm, and I bet you’re wondering how I knew that, huh?” Setting his take-out aside, Foggy leaned back in his seat, steepling his hands under his chin. “I mean, you have tons of friends. Trish and Jess and…” he trailed off. “Okay, so maybe you don’t have _tons_ of friends. But you have a few. So how could I _possibly_ know that it was Frank Castle?”

Karen sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. When Foggy got like this, pontificating out loud just to hear his own voice, there was no way to stop him.

“I mean, Frank Castle is just a guy you see sometimes when you go to the gym, right? He’s just ‘a casual friend,’ right?” He made generous use of air quotes, repeating verbatim what she had told him a few weeks ago when he’d interrogated her (for the _n_ th time) about her thing with Frank. “So how could I—a man with no formal training as a detective—have possibly guessed that it was Frank Castle who texted you?”

He paused, and Karen realized he wanted her to answer him.

“I don’t know, Foggy. Oh, won’t you please tell me?” She asked, as sarcastically as possible.

“Oh, well I’m so glad you inquired.” Foggy’s responding smile was ridiculously-fake. “See, I’ve known you for what—five years now? And I’m very well-versed in the encyclopedia of Karen Page’s Facial Expressions. For example, the little downturn at the left corner of your mouth right now,” he pointed to her face, “let’s me know that you’re barely tolerating me at the moment.”

Karen reached up and touched her fingers to her lips. She hadn’t even realized her face was twisted in a half-frown.

“And the slight widening of your eyes means that you’re surprised, and a little freaked out, at how observant I am.” With a shit-eating grin, Foggy continued.

“You absolute weirdo.”

“Hey—it’s part of the job. I have to be able to tell when you’re about to lose your shit on someone so that I can step in and defuse the tension. Like I always do.” He crossed one leg over the other, ankle on top of knee. “So I’ve noticed lately that you have a very specific smile for when you’re thinking about Frank Castle.”

“Oh come on.” Karen rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” With an eyebrow raised, Foggy leaned forward. “Because your Frank smile is very distinct. It’s soft, and kind of far away. And it crinkles the corners of your eyes. And nine times out of ten, you try to cover it up with your hand, which is a dead giveaway that you _know_ how obvious it is and you’re trying to hide it.”

Karen opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. Foggy was right. What could she say—she was in love with the man, and apparently much worse at hiding it that she thought.

“You know, Fog, now I feel like a bad friend. I don’t have a weird, obsessive mental file of all _your_ facial expressions to throw back at you.”

“Interesting.” Foggy raised a knowing brow. “I notice you didn’t try to deny anything.”

“Because I know _you_ , and I know that it’s pointless to argue with you when you think you’re right.”

“A likely story. Or,” he pinned her with an unrelenting stare, “you can’t deny it because I _am_ right.”

Karen sighed heavily, falling back into her seat and running a hand through her hair.

“Alright, facial expert, what does my expression tell you right now,” she gestured at her face.

“Well that’s a tough one,” Foggy hissed, thinking. “It looks like you’re thinking about kicking my ass if I don’t shut up.”

“Boy, you _are_ good.” Karen’s quick grin was wry. “Now pass me one of those eggrolls and I might let you stay.”

 

A few days later, and a handful of miles away, Frank found himself confronted with a similar talk about his relationship with Karen.

It was late Sunday morning when Maria swung around his brownstone to pick up the kids from their weekend with Dad. The visit had been an eventful one—Frankie and Lisa had spent most of that Friday at the gym watching him train with Uncle Curtis, occasionally bugging Luke to keep them entertained. On Saturday, David had invited them all to a cookout at his place, and they’d thoroughly exhausted themselves chasing Zack and Leo around the yard, playing games.

 They were ready to drop by the time they got home that night.

“Don’t forget your toothbrush this time!” Maria yelled up the stairs to the kids, who (despite Frank’s warning that their mother would be there any minute) had waited until the very last moment to pack up their stuff. “Forgetting it at Dad’s isn’t an excuse not to brush!”

“Sorry ‘bout this. I swear I told them to get ready so you wouldn’t have to wait.” Frank shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and the front hallway.

“It’s okay. I know how it is.” Maria sighed. “They’re getting worse about listening every day.”

“Soon they’ll be old enough to drive. And we’ll be screwed.”

“Don’t remind me.” Maria ran a hand through her hair. “Hey—one month until the big fight, huh? How you feeling?”

Frank barely kept himself from grimacing; it was the question on everyone’s lips. How the fuck was Frank Castle feeling about his big return to the ring?

If he was being honest, it was a bit of a grab bag; his confidence levels fluctuated from day to day. Sometimes he’d have moments of insecurity, when he’d catch sight of himself in the mirror and think “what the hell am I doing?” He hadn’t fought in two solid years—hadn’t set foot in an official ring—and here he was gearing up to take on the WBA champion in his comeback match. When he thought about it like that, the whole idea was unbelievably ridiculous. Made him feel a bit like a washed-up fighter trying to reclaim his former glory; had him worried that he was going to make a fool of himself. He’d actually had several nightmares in the past few weeks about the match ending in a knockout in the very first round, and his body being carried out of the ring on a stretcher.

Other times, after a particularly brutal round of training with Curtis, for instance, Frank felt like he was an unstoppable force. Like he’d come back from the shooting better than ever; a returning champion still at the top of his game. Or when Karen started talking technical with him—explaining all of the ways in which his training was more than preparing him to take anything Murdock could throw at him—he felt a well of assurance bubbling up strong. Filling him with a buoyant kind of hope; painting a picture of a victory that was well within his grasp.

But Frank didn’t want to explain all of that to Maria—that he was riding a seemingly endless rollercoaster of good and bad days. So instead he just bobbed his head and lied.

“Feeling good. Not worried at all.”

“I’m glad. You _should_ be confident. Curtis has been working you like a dog.”

“Karen, too.” Frank snorted, a grin quirking his lips.

“Karen?” Maria asked, brow shooting up. “Karen Page?”

“Yeah. She’s been sending me all these clips of Murdock at like 2 in the morning, waking my ass up to point out something small she just noticed.”

Maria was quiet for a moment, staring at Frank hard. A little _too_ hard. Hard enough to make him uncomfortable.

“What?” He frowned, reaching up a hand to touch his face. “I got something?”

“No, no.” Maria shook her head, then broke out into a knowing smirk. “I just didn’t know if you realized you were doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Every time you talk about Karen, your voice gets all…soft. And your eyes go moony. Like your head is flying off to dream land. It’s cute. I don’t think you ever got that way when you were talking about me.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Oh, come on.” Maria rolled her eyes so hard, the force of it had her head bobbing to the side. “Don’t play dumb—it’s beneath you. Everyone agrees it’s the most obvious thing in the world. David, Curtis—even Lisa made some comment the other day about her Dad ‘going gaga’ over Karen.”

“You talk about me and Karen with David and Curtis?” Frank was a little offended.

“That’s not the point. Why are you avoiding this conversation like it’s the plague?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Right now you’re doing it. Trying to weasel your way out of talking about the fact that you’re in love with Karen.”

“I’m not—” he started. But he couldn’t finish the sentence. The words felt bitter in his throat. Maria huffed, hands on her hips, and stared him down.

“Say it, Frank. If you’re not in love with Karen, I dare you to say it.” She held her arms out. “Convince me.” He just stared at her while she waited, an expectant look on her face. “That’s what I thought.” There was a beat of silence, only the rumbling of their kids running down the hallway upstairs serving as background noise. “You know it’s okay to be in love with her. You can let yourself feel that.”

“I—” Frank shook his head, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye socket, suddenly feeling very tired. He didn’t know what to say.

“We’ve been divorced for 8 years, and you’ve never dated anyone in all that time. That’s crazy, Frank. I don’t know if you’re trying to cut yourself off from the feeling, or if you’re scared, or what.” Maria frowned. “But you have to let yourself feel what you’re going to feel.” She heaved a deep breath. “Karen’s…she’s something. She’s something great. You need to let her be great for you.”

Frank shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Maria could have laughed—it was the most defensive gesture imaginable.

Glancing off to the side, he made a kind of grunting noise. Then spoke: “Okay. Yeah. I know.”

“Good.” Maria stepped toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be happy.”

“I know.”

 He was saved from the rest of the conversation by the sound of Lisa and Frankie Jr. barreling down the stairs, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. It was one of the many perks to having kids—sometimes they managed to interrupt adult conversations you didn’t want to have.

After the hugs and “good byes” and “see you soons,” Frank was left with an empty house. And plenty of free time to think about Karen; about what Maria had said. In fact, he thought about it all night, and well into the next day, when he should have been concentrating on training with Curtis.

 

“Man, where has your head been?” Curtis reached out and knocked his gloved fist against Frank’s skull, rapping it gently. “I feel like you’ve been on autopilot all day. We’re too close to game day for you to be zoning out in the middle of training.”

“Sorry.” Frank grabbed his water bottle, unscrewing the cap and dumping it over his head.

“I don’t want to hear your apologies, man. I want you to tell me what has you all tied up in knots so we can fix it and get back to our work.” Curtis shook his head. “You worried about the match or something?”

“No.” He wasn’t—not at that exact moment, at least. Wiping his brow with a heaving breath, he avoided Curtis’s gaze.

“Then what is it?”

What, indeed. It was a very good question. One he wasn’t entirely sure he could answer—in a way that made any real sense, at least.

 

When Frank had first started boxing, way back in high school, he’d been an absolute natural. Picked it up like his hands were born to make fists. Papa Hoyle had never seen anyone take to the sport so quickly, or with such vigor. A good boxer has to be many things: powerful enough to knock a grown man on his ass with a single blow, fast enough to dodge and slip any strike that comes his way, smart enough to immediately and accurately assess the strengths and weaknesses of his opponent, and calm enough to keep steady in the midst of an aggressive onslaught. Frank was all of those things—and more. He was practically a machine in the ring.

But as a kid, he was never used to being “good” at anything; was unfamiliar with the concept. Because Frank Castle was always the fuck up. The troublemaker. The kid who couldn’t do a damn thing right. So when he started to get the inkling that he was actually a skilled boxer—a _really_ skilled boxer—he hadn’t quite known how to handle it. Entirely unaccustomed to having a _gift_ for something, he began to worry that it was only temporary. That if he made one wrong move, or if he said one wrong thing, it would all disappear. He’d lose his apparent talent and just go back to being the deadbeat kid who couldn’t keep his ass in school. That thought terrified him. Having tasted pride on his tongue, he didn’t think he could survive being the person he was before.

So he’d started getting a little superstitious. A little paranoid. Every time someone found out that he boxed at Hoyle’s Gym, and asked him if he was any good, he lied and said “no.” There was a small part of him that felt like admitting he was a pretty fantastic athlete would jinx it all. As if acknowledging it out loud would make it would all go away; he’d be punished for his pride by losing his skill. For _years_ , despite the fact that he knew in his bones he was special, Frank denied having any real talent for the sport. Brushed off compliments and pretended none of his accomplishments meant anything.

It had taken him a long time to break that habit. But the way he’d felt about boxing in those early days was kind of how he felt about Karen now.

He wasn’t an idiot—he knew he was in love with her. Hell, he’d been half in love with her since that day at the Velodrome when she’d confessed her passion for WWE wrestling. How could he not be? She was every soft and beautiful thing out of his reach.

But admitting it felt like a terrifying step. Like saying the words out loud would somehow ruin everything. Would jinx it.

 

“Hey, you still there, buddy?”

Frank looked up to see Curtis staring at him, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, I just…” He trailed off, shrugging.

“You just what?”

“I was just thinking,” Frank ran a hand down his face—stalling for time—obfuscating. “About the kids. Frankie’s having trouble in school. His grades. Got me stressed out.” The lie felt wooden and bitter coming from his mouth; he didn’t make a habit of bullshitting Curtis. But he just couldn’t handle another lecture about Karen, which was what he was sure he would get if he brought her up.

“Ah, well.” Curtis sighed, and Frank knew he was home free. As much as Curtis loved Lisa and Frankie, he wasn’t a fan of “parent talk,” and tended to get annoyed when Frank and David managed to steer conversations into “kid territory” (talk of private school tuition or playground bullying). “Nothing you can do about it right now, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“So let’s get your head in the game and re-focus.”

 

And Frank tried, he really did, but the rest of his training session was a bit of a bust. Curtis landing blows that an amateur could block and Frank throwing off-kilter punches that glanced off their intended target. It was a mess; Curtis was beyond exasperated. But no matter how hard Frank attempted to concentrate, his heart just wasn’t in it. It was somewhere else—with _someone_ else.

And to make matters worse, Karen hadn’t shown up at the gym that evening for her usual workout—a fact which set Frank on edge. Luke was out of town for the week, whisking Claire away to a romantic vacation upstate, so Frank had promised to take his place and spar with Karen after his training session. (It had taken a lot of persuading to get her to agree to the proposition, as she still wasn’t entirely convinced of Frank’s ability to go easy on her). But it was well-past the time at which Karen normally came strolling in, and she was a nowhere to be seen, which was more than a little disturbing. He had grown so accustomed to seeing her almost every day that her absence was a bit like a wound—made the gym feel kind of empty. Made _Frank_ feel kind of empty.

He’d started to worry when the clock hit 9PM and there was still no sign of her. Curtis had already gone home for the evening, having exhausted his patience with their less-than-focused session, but Frank remained behind, watching the front door like a hawk. Waiting impatiently for some sign of the woman.

Glancing at his watch, he frowned. Karen was a creature of habit—she liked her stable little patterns and procedures. And more than that, she was a big fan of the casual update. If she was ever running late for a session, or needed to cancel, she would check in. Send a quick little text to let Frank know not to wait up. So the fact that he’d heard nothing all evening was a little concerning.

Pacing around the gym, feeling off-center, Frank finally gave in to impulse and dialed her number.

“Hello?” The second he heard her voice, he knew that she was stressed. It was the tight restrain in her tone that gave it away—short and clipped. Frank had noticed, after much observation, that the more frantic she got, the more controlled she spoke.

“Hey, Kare. You okay?”

“Oh my god, Frank! I’m so sorry—I meant to call you earlier, but I got so swamped. I’m not going to make it tonight.”

“Yeah, I figured. Everything alright? You still at work?”

“Yeah—still at work. It’s a fucking mess.” Karen groaned, and he heard the sound of her keyboard clacking in the background. “Apparently, Anderson Fray went on a Twitter rant last night about how women demanding equal pay in sports is some kind of misandry. He tweeted at a bunch of female athletes; must have been drunk or something. He even used the c-word—I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking. So now Ellison has put him on leave until he can figure out what to do, which means I’ve been handed all of his work for the next week or so.”

“Damn.” Frank grimaced. “That sounds rough.”

“It is. I’m drowning in paperwork over here. Fray was so far behind, he left a massive mess.” She took a deep breath, and the sound of typing stopped, just for a moment. “How are you doing? Was training okay?”

“Uh,” Frank paused, unsure of how to answer her. “It was…just…it wasn’t bad.”

“Well _that_ was convincing.”

“It was—it was just training. Don’t worry about it, Kare. You focus on getting your work done.”

“ _Frank_.” Karen’s voice was skeptical. “Is something going on? I know we’re getting _so_ fucking close to the match—are you starting to get nervous or—”

“Really, Kare.” Frank cut in. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

There was a pause, then a heavy sigh from Karen’s end. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

The last gym-goer left at around 9:30 that evening, leaving Frank all alone in the empty, echoing building. He locked up, double checking each door just to be sure, and decided to blow off some extra steam with an hour or two at the punching bag. Nothing like hitting an inanimate object, repeatedly and with as much force as possible, to help clear the head. He chose the one in the far back corner—his favorite, with the little smiley face drawn on it in red Sharpie—and went to town. Fist connecting with canvas over and over, until every muscle in his arms began to scream in protest. And then he kept going—sweat dripping from his brow onto the mat beneath his feet.

He let his mind race—followed it down every avenue it took him; releasing some of the pent up pressure that seemed to concentrate at the base of his skull. The shooting, Lake Placid, Maria and the kids, the match with Murdock, Karen.

Karen, Karen, Karen.

It was absolutely ridiculous, how much he couldn’t stop thinking about _Karen_. About the way in which she’d become the brightest spot in his entire life.

And how fucking _right_ Maria had been. About all of it—about everything she’d said to him the day before. After their divorce, he’d cut himself off from the idea of love—from the hope of ever finding it again. If he and Maria couldn’t make it work, with two kids between them, then maybe he just wasn’t cut out for it. The romance and the intimacy and the ability to lose himself in someone else—maybe it was simply beyond him. Out of reach.

Over the years, he’d grown to accept that idea as truth. Found comfort in his solitude, embracing it with open arms.

But then he’d met Karen. And Maria had it exactly right—she was something _great_. Something rare and precious and real. His fierce, honest Karen, who had been hurt and disappointed and kicked around her whole life, but still held this unbelievable capacity for love. For hope. For kindness and connection. Who fought for her space in the world unrelentingly. Who picked herself back up after every fall, ready for another round. And another round. And another round.

She’d tapped into a part of him that he’d forgotten even existed—the part that sought collapse. That wanted to break and bend and curve around the body of someone else; to shatter completely in the safety of another person’s arms. He got so tired—so fucking _tired_ —keeping his back straight and his center strong, day after day. Karen made him feel like he could rest against her. And he hadn’t known how badly he needed that.

 _God_ , but she was something else. With those easy smiles and wide, blue eyes, Frank never stood a chance. Not that he would have wanted to.

“Well Jesus Christ. I don’t want to know what that punching bag did to deserve such abuse.”

Frank was wheeling around in an instant, surprised, at the sound of Karen’s voice. She was leaning against a beam, one ankle crossed over the other, and grinning at him with a teasing gleam in her eyes. Frank blinked, unsure for a moment whether she was real, or if he’d conjured her with the pure intensity of his thoughts.

“Karen?” He slipped off his gloves, tossing them aside. “How did you—?”

“Spare key Luke keeps in the power box out back.”

“But I thought you had work?” He let his eyes skim down her figure; she was dressed in a black pencil skirt, pale blue blouse, and stilettos.

“It can wait until tomorrow.” She raised her shoulders nonchalantly. “You didn’t sound right on the phone. I thought you might need me.”

 _Fuck_ , did he need her. Like his next breath of air; like the marrow in his bones. She had no idea.

“You didn’t have to come all the way down here.” There was a touch of guilt in his voice. “I know your work’s really important.”

“Frank.” The little disapproving—disbelieving—hitch in Karen’s tone was sweet. “More important than _you_? Come on.”

His heart was tripping about in his chest; quick and almost manic. Shit, but she was a beautiful sight; lightening in human form. He was hit with a sudden flash of devotion deep in his gut—so strong it almost stole his breath. The things he would do if she asked him to.

“Karen, I—” he started, then trailed off. He didn’t know what to say. And even if he _did_ , he wouldn’t know how to say it. He’d never been much of a poet, a man of action and not words, but he imagined that, given a thousand lifetimes to come up with something, he’d still be at a loss. Some things, it seemed, were just beyond human language. Too ancient—profound and immense—to be held.

She was standing there, lovely and soft, that warm look in her eyes, and Frank’s entire body ached with want—the need to touch her—in a way he didn’t think he was strong enough to fight.

It was the demand pulsing through his veins—every hot rush of blood screaming at him to move. To step toward her. Take her in his arms and show her just how lost he was in her presence. His hands twitched at his sides, itching to reach out, across the impossible divide, and _feel_.

Karen sensed a subtle shift in the air the moment he spoke her name, his voice heavy and raw. It was a heat—a thick haze of need—which seemed to settle in the space between them. Breathing in deeply, she filled her lungs with whatever heady thing hung in the air; it clung to the inside of her throat like sugar. Her eyes darted to Frank’s chest, covered in a grey t-shirt, soaked with sweat and heaving with something that looked like more than exertion.

Her body was responding to his in an instant; buzzing and aware. An exposed wire.

“Frank.” There must have been something in her tone—something that gave her away—because his eyes suddenly darkened as they held her own. Burning; greedy and alive. The look of a hungry, desperate man.

She took a step toward him, hand half-raised as though to reach out and touch.

It was all the invitation Frank needed. In a moment, a blinding instant, he had taken three, long paces toward her, and had her wrapped up in his arms.

They were strong arms—warm and thick and perfect. She only had a moment to contemplate the feeling of them twining around her body before his lips were on hers. Hot and needy. And all intelligent thought fled from her mind.

 _God_ , he kissed exactly like she knew he would. With more fire and ferocity than she had ever imagined possible. All-consuming—teeth clashing; lips devouring. It was a savage first kiss. The kind she might have expected from a man who dealt in blood and bone. Brutal and feral in the most exquisite way; sending adrenaline flooding down her spine.

A low moan slipped from deep in her throat, and Frank’s hands grappled at her back, dragging her closer—until every part of her was pressed against him. Until she was surrounded utterly.

 Her fingers were in his hair. She didn’t know how they got there, only that they were scratching and pulling—hauling him to her so that she could take more; taste more.

“Karen.” Frank pulled away just enough to let her name slip from his lips—and it sounded like some kind of pleading invocation. His eyes were absolutely hazy; blown wide with lust, and something so much deeper it had Karen’s insides clenching. She grinned, darting her tongue to swipe along her bottom lip, and Frank groaned. The glistening trail it left behind was so fucking tempting. And suddenly he was kissing her again, slower this time—with intent. Like his sole purpose was to taste every inch of her he could.

In her dazed mind, Karen could have sworn that his hands were everywhere at once, roaming and sliding over skin and silk. The calloused pads of his fingers catching on the delicate fabric. When he reached down to cup her ass, jerking her against him, she gasped. Nails scratching down his scalp, making him shudder in response.

She was so lost in his kisses—in the swipe of his tongue and the nipping of his teeth—that she didn’t even realize he’d been walking her steadily backwards until her shoulder blades hit something hard, but with enough give not to hurt. She broke away from his mouth with a wet little noise, glanced behind her, and barked a laugh. He’d pressed her against a wall bag. There was something about it that was so fitting.

“This okay?” Frank was smiling, his hands on her hips, thumbs rubbing soft little circles. Those eyes—still dark and heavy with passion—were shaded with something that looked a lot like happiness.

“Frank,” Karen dipped her head, brushing her nose against his in an affectionate gesture. She didn’t know how to say that this was exactly what she’d been dreaming of for weeks. _Years_ , if she was being honest with herself. “This is _more_ than okay.”

“Good.” He whispered, before ducking his head and attaching his mouth to the soft little spot where her neck and shoulder met.

“Oh fuck.” Her head lolled to the side in response, her hips jerking forward of their own accord.  Frank hummed his approval, tongue darting out and licking at her sensitive flesh. She found her hands back in his hair, tangled and desperate.

 As he nipped and sucked his way to her collar bone, Karen began to grow frustrated with her clothing. What a fucking night to wear a pencil skirt. All she wanted to do was wrap one leg around his waist—pull him in hard against her core—but she was so restricted.

Frank ground into her, slow and perfect, and it was all Karen could take.

With an exasperated groan, she untangled her hands and brought them down, hiking her entire skirt above her waist in one, quick move. Frank pulled back, surprised, and looked down. The smirk that spread across his face was slow and liquid—pure animal.

“Jesus Christ, Karen.” Those miles of bare leg, pale and delicate, were a dream; one Frank had indulged in many times, if he were being honest. Still wearing her stilettos, with her lacy, black panties exposed, she was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen. He was twitching in his sweatpants, eager.

“Want to feel you, Frank.” She ran her hands down his back, then brought up one leg, hitching it around his waist and using it to yank him into her.

“ _Fuck._ ” Frank’s head fell forward the moment his erection came in contact with her hot center. His forehead hitting the space above her shoulder with a thud, and his hand flying down and gripping her thigh with grasping fingers, hiking it further up his body.

Rough palm on soft, smooth flesh. The contrast was intense—perfect—as he scraped his way to her knee, blunt nails feather light.

“Oh God,” Karen’s hand were clawing at his back, twisting in his shirt, as she rolled her hips forward steadily, the already-soaked fabric of her panties sliding against his straining cock. With only her small undergarments and his sweatpants separating them, the friction was torture. Unbelievable torture.

Frank dipped his head again, still holding tight to her knee and grinding forward into her wet heat. Karen’s chest was heaving, her hips moving in slow circles as she took her pleasure from him pressed tight against her slit. When he brought his mouth to her neck, her senses flew into overdrive.

“Wanted you for so long.” The words were muffled and low, his lips moving against her skin as he spoke; the brush of his teeth on her collar bone positively maddening.

“Yeah?” Karen gasped as he bucked forward, dragging against her clit and sending a spark of overwhelming heat out every limb of her body.

“Yeah.” Frank’s free hand was reaching for her shirt, blindly undoing buttons with fumbling fingers.

“How do you want me?” Head falling back against the wall bag, Karen’s voice was barely more than a sigh. Frank finished the last button, pulling the blouse from her skirt before pausing all movement, raising his head to her. Karen made a frustrated noise when he stopped the slow circling of his hips, and tilted her chin back down to look him in the eye. He was staring at her—gaze penetrating.

“Karen.” There was an emotion in his voice she couldn’t name. “I don’t just want you tonight, okay?” Slowly, he brought his free hand—the one not gripping her thigh—up to cup her left breast. Maintaining eye contact, he swiped his thumb over her nipple, which puckered instantly through the cotton of her bra. “I want you for—” he broke off, unsure, “—for as long as you’ll have me, okay?”

“Frank.” Karen’s tone was soft, and she brought her hands up to cup his jaw tenderly. Lowering her head, she captured his lips in a gentle kiss—warm and delicate. He made a quiet noise in his throat, nipping at her lightly before pulling away.

“I just—I,” he tried speaking again, but the words wouldn’t come. Huffing a grunt—an exasperated sound—his eyes tightened. “You mean—Karen. You mean everything—”

“I know.” She let her forehead fall forward to rest against his. “I know. You mean everything, too, Frank.”

It was enough. The words weren’t perfect, but they were enough.

Before she could react, Frank had dropped the leg he held around his waist, sinking down to his knees in front of her. His large, strong hands dragging down the backs of her thighs as he went.

And he was looking up at her, so much worship in his eyes that her gut twisted sharply with a feeling of unworthiness. That Frank Castle would be on his knees before her, gazing at her with such naked devotion, was almost unbelievable.

But he was. And Karen’s entire body tautened in response.

“Let me show you, Kare.” The gravel in his voice deepened. “I want to show you.” His hands started at her ankles, sliding up the backs of her legs until he was cupping her ass. Leaning forward, he pressed a lingering kiss to one hip bone, then the other. He glanced up, catching her gaze, before hooking his fingers into the tops of her panties, pulling them down. It was the eye contact that did it for her—the way he made damn sure she could see the anticipation and reverence on his face.

She lifted one foot, then the other, so that he could remove her panties completely, though she still wore her heels. Holding her eyes with his own, Frank wrapped a hand around each ankle, tugging gently until her legs were parted a little wider—leaving her utterly exposed to him. It was a wanton picture, Karen with her skirt bunched at her waist, slit bare and glistening before a kneeling Frank.

“You’re so perfect.” His breath was heated, fanning across her dripping core, and his eyes dropped, looking his fill. Sparse blonde curls, pink lips, blushing thighs. He could die a happy fucking man.

Languorously—with great patience, he let his hands ghost back up her legs, brushing the sensitive crook of her knee as he went, until he was gripping the tops of her thighs under the curve of her ass.

“Frank.” Karen let out a desperate little noise as his breath continued to hit her, lovely and teasing, where she wanted him most. He quirked a smile—part mischievous, but all affectionate—before finally lowering his head. Fingers on her thighs flexed and relaxed as his hot mouth closed over her, and he tasted her on his tongue for the first time.

“Oh fucking hell.” Karen’s head fell back once more, and she was tugging on his hair in an instant as his tongue swiped up and down her slit, wet and wanting. His nose bumped her clit in the process, causing her hips to buck forward of their own volition.

Frank made a muffled noise—a kind of moan—before opening his mouth completely and kissing her slow. He doubted that she realized she was doing it, but Karen’s stance widened ever-so-slightly, opening herself more and more to his ministrations.

He was unhurried—patient—making love to her with his mouth like a man who had all the time in the world. Gentle swipes across her clit, tongue never quite hard enough, or fast enough. Teasing. Dipping into her and letting his full lips drag across her folds.

The feeling of his short beard scraping at the insides of her thighs only added to her pleasure, and a distant part of her mind wondered if she’d have beard rash in the morning (she would).

Karen’s fingers were scrambling for purchase against his scalp as she felt the leisurely build—so fucking slow—in the pit of her stomach. The noises he made, open mouth sucking at her, were absolutely obscene. They mingled with Karen’s desperate whimpers and moans, filling the quiet gym with an erotic soundtrack. She let him have his fun—for a while—bringing her closer to the edge with the languid movement of his mouth. But as her panting grew more rapid, and her noises more urgent, Karen yanked at his hair, telling him to bring her to the edge.

He obliged, hands sliding up to cup her ass, hauling her forward, eating her in earnest.

“Shit, Frank.”

It was all Karen could do to hold on, as suddenly he was licking and sucking at her clit with fervor. Her legs were beginning to grow shaky—unsteady—as he moaned and grunted into her dripping core. If she had thought to look down, she would have seen a dark spot growing on the front of Frank’s grey sweatpants, as he began to leak precum, winding himself up as he gave her pleasure.

“I’m gonna—Frank—I—” Karen’s voice was at the point of breaking as she tried to catch her breath long enough to form a coherent thought. The spikes of pleasure building in her gut were powerful enough to have her convulsing slightly, no longer in control of her body. Her hands in his hair were wild and clawing, and Frank’s lips wrapped around her clit had her seeing white. It didn’t take long before she was shattering against his mouth, gasping his name with her eyes shut tight, head slamming back against the wall bag.

“Jesus fuck.” Her legs all but gave out, and Frank was lowering her to the floor gently, wrapping his arms around her, before she could regain her senses enough to appreciate it. It took a few deep, steadying breaths before Karen could concentrate enough to speak. She was sitting in Frank’s lap, his embrace warm and tight, with his cock pressing hard against her ass.

She stared up into his eyes, which were dancing with light, and felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria.

Suddenly she was laughing—loud and carefree—with the kind of giddiness that seems to only come after a really, really wonderful orgasm.

“What?” Frank’s lips were quirking, and she noticed that his chin was absolutely wet with her. “What’s so funny?” If he were a less confident man, he would have been offended. But he’d felt her legs trembling against the sides of his face—had heard her calling out his name. He knew when a job was well done.

“Just—in the gym?” Karen’s shoulders were shaking, and she buried her head in the crook of his neck. “The _gym_?”

“Yeah.” Frank looked around, eyeing their surroundings with a chuckle of his own. “Curtis is gonna hate what we did to his wall bag.”

Karen raised her head again, turning to look at the aforementioned piece of equipment. She bit her lip, glancing back at Frank. “Well,” with her hands on his shoulders, she pushed herself up onto quivering legs. She wobbled for a moment, and Frank raised his hands to her hips to steady her. “Then he’s _really_ gonna hate what we’re about to do in his shower.” Swaying out of his grasp, she turned to walk away with a saucy wink.

It took Frank a moment to respond, as he sat dumbfounded, watching Karen kick off her shoes, heading in the direction of the locker rooms. She shed her shirt as she went, then her bra.

And he was on his feet in an instant, rushing after her. He caught up right as she opened the door to the women’s locker room, wriggling out of her skirt as she did.

He grabbed her from behind, pulling her naked body against his chest, hands coming up to cup her breasts. Karen paused in her journey, just long enough to arch her back, sending her ass rubbing against his erection and causing him to moan low in her ear. He tweaked her nipples with his thumbs in retribution before she pulled out of his arms and turned to face him.

It hit him all at once—the reality of what was happening. There was Karen, naked as the day she was born, standing in front of him like a dream. He still had the taste of her on his tongue—sharp and human.

His heart squeezed painfully as she smiled at him—a genuine smile—and he couldn’t believe his luck.

“There’s a bench in the far shower.” Karen pointed over her shoulder. “I’m thinking we can find a use for it. But you’re wearing far, far too much, I’m afraid.”

Frank already had his shirt over his head before she was done talking, and was working on the tie of his sweatpants when she stepped forward, running and hand down his chest. He fought back a shiver.

“Jesus—you’re fucking beautiful.” Her voice was full of adoration as her fingertips ran down his body, tracing the muscles of his abdomen. She paused as she ghosted over the scar tissue from his bullet wounds—puckered and pink. She’d seen them before, when he’d trained shirtless in the ring, but touching them was something else. Softly, with a feeling akin to piety, she traced their jagged edges. “Every part of you. Beautiful.”

“Yeah?” The burning feeling that had been growing in his chest all night blew wild and bright, like lighter fluid to a flame. It had him vibrating to the tips of his toes.

“Oh yeah.” Karen held his eyes with her own as she slid her hands to the small of his back, letting them dip into his sweatpants, grabbing an ass cheek in each palm. “Ridiculously beautiful.” She squeezed, grinning at Frank’s little yelp.

He was kissing her again—deep and slow—as she pushed the rest of his clothes off of his body. Refusing to disengage from her lips, he stepped out of them blindly. His hands were cupping her jaw, gently—strong and steady. She walked them backwards toward the far shower, grasping at his broad, muscular back the whole time. (The scratch marks he’d notice the next morning would fill him with a deep, abiding sense of pride). Reaching behind her, she yanked the curtain open, then spun them around so that she could push Frank inside.

He stumbled a bit, caught off guard, before collapsing back onto the tile bench directly under the showerhead. Blinking in confusion, he took a moment to regain his bearings. Then he chuckled, reaching to the side and turning on the water. After a moment of sputtering, a warm stream burst out, raining down on him in a steady spray. Karen stood in the opening of the shower, greedily drinking him in. Tracing the path of the water with her eyes as it cut its way down his body, sliding over muscle and tanned flesh.

 Fuck, he was a sight. He system flooded anew with arousal—sharp and pointed.

Lifting both arms, he ran his hands through his hair, and Karen almost groaned at the flex of his biceps. Her eyes darted down. He was sitting with his legs spread, and his cock was hard against his stomach. Long and thick. Tongue darting out to lick her lips, Karen felt her heart rate tick up.

“Gonna come here or you just gonna stare at me?” Frank’s voice was so low it was practically a vibration. He held his arms out to her.

Pulling her hair from its half-destroyed bun, she walked forward under the spray. Frank spread his legs wider, and she stepped into the space between his thighs, placing her hands on his shoulder.

“God damn, Karen.” He let his head thunk back against the tiled wall, looking at her through hooded eyes. Just taking in the sight—Karen Page, naked and slippery. Droplets of water travelling down her chest, making her nipples pucker at the contact. He was so hard for her, it was almost uncomfortable. Groaning, he brought his hands up to sit at her waist, pulling her forward to wrap his lips around her left nipple.

“Oh!” Karen’s hands on his shoulders tightened, and she arched her chest forward. Frank licked and sucked, lightly, letting his hands trail over her slick flesh. When he pulled away, it was to nip softly at the underside of her breast, earning him a little yelp.

“That’s for squeezing my butt.” He smirked up at her, holding back a laugh.

“Well joke’s on you; I like being bitten.”

“Really?” Frank’s eyes lit up at the possibilities, and he let his hands drift to her ass.

“Yes, really.” Karen raised a brow, using his shoulders as leverage to lower herself down, one knee on either side of his thighs, until she was straddling him. Hovering above his ready cock.

Frank’s eyes flicked down, and he almost choked at the sight—Karen wet and ready, so close to where he needed her. Water from the shower intermingling with her slick juices, sluicing their way down her thighs.

“Frank.’ Something in her voice had him looking back up at her—something small, but serious. Those blue eyes—wide and kind—were heavy laden with meaning. “Hey, I meant it earlier. What I said. You’re everything.”

Frank’s throat tightened at how sweet it was to hear her say those words. In that tender tone, her face open and honest.

“I meant it too, Kare.” He reached up, cupping her jaw in both hands. She bit her lip, holding his gaze, as she lowered herself onto him. He watched in fascination as her eyes widened the moment he filled her, her mouth popping open in a gasp. Then her head was falling back, a soft moan leaving her throat.

“Oh _fuck_.” He felt so good—stretching her; all the way to the hilt. It was a fullness that went beyond the physical. A completeness that took her breath away.

“Feel so good, Kare.” Frank was gritting his teeth, jaw tensed, trying not to lose it over how fucking _perfect_ she was—tight and hot around him. His hands fell from her face to her hips, and he squeezed with greedy fingers.

She didn’t move for a moment, just adjusting to his size. Breathing in his air—letting the warm water from the shower flow over their joined bodies. He twitched, deep inside of her, and a choked noise left her throat. Bracing herself, she was lifted up onto her knees again—slowly—swiveling her hips as she went.

“Oh,” her head fell forward until her brow was bumping against Frank’s, and she sank back down onto him. Taking her time. Swallowing him into her heat. The feeling was electric—had her twitching and shuddering.

“You wanna go slow, Kare?” Frank asked, tilting his head until his nose brushed against hers.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go slow.” He captured her lips in a kiss, using his hands to help lift and lower her on his lap. The head of his cock brushing the sensitive spot behind her clit with each move, causing her to clench. She was slippery underneath his palms—hot and alive. A low moan reverberated in his throat as he pulled her closer—pressing her to him everywhere he possibly could. Like he was trying to fall into her body and lose his own. She was writhing on him in an almost hypnotic dance of flesh, and he thrust up gently in time with her movements, working them into a languid, pulsating rhythm.

It felt amazing—perfect—the torturous slide of him in and out of her, filling her deeply with every thrust. She kissed him in time with their coupling, tongue caressing and teeth nipping as they made love. Warm water slicking their bodies, allowing her breasts to slide against him with every rise and fall of her hips against his own. Their panting began to sync up—two sets of lungs dragging in thick, heated air.

“God, you’re perfect.” Frank breathed, pulling away from Karen’s lips to lick and suck at her neck, drinking water from her skin. It tasted like her, and Frank’s fingers were flexing on her hips with need. She made a keening noise, and it vibrated through him.

A slow pressure was beginning to wind in Karen’s core—a fluttering of her inner muscles as they gripped at Frank with clinging want—but the pace was not fast enough. It wasn’t hard enough. She needed more. Snaking a hand down, Karen began to press at her clit, rubbing and pinching as she took Frank into her body.

He looked down, and a low noise caught in his throat. The sight of her sinking onto him—pink folds parting for his body—was unbelievably erotic. And her fingers playing at her clit had the desire deep in his gut growing wild.

“Let me.” He nipped at the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, bringing one hand down to replace hers, letting his thumb press against her. She jolted, grinding forward into the digit, and Frank thrust upward with extra force.

“Oh yes. Like that, Frank.” Karen’s head was lolling on her shoulders, and she was groaning harshly. When Frank glanced up at her face, she looked positively wrecked, and a feeling of satisfaction slid up his spine.

Without even realizing it, she began to pick up the pace—rising onto her knees and sinking down onto Frank almost frantically. Faster—harder. Letting the warm shower water ease the slide of her body against his. She suppressed a shiver as her nipples dragged against the rough hair on his chest—an electric shot tripping through her.

“Oh fuck.” Frank panted, as she rode him passionately. “Fuck, Kare.” He threw his head back, no longer able to keep his lips on her skin with the way she was bouncing up and down. He watched her, in awe, as she twisted and gyrated above him, grinding down every time she sunk onto his cock. It was marvelous—water falling down her naked body—and Frank knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

He redoubled his efforts, rubbing at her clit with his thumb in tight little circles, until he heard her breath hitching her chest.

“I’m close, Frank—I—” she broke off, gasping, as he began bucking up into her more forcefully, hitting her deep and fast. Filling her so completely, she could almost feel it in the base of her skull.

God, it was all so much. Her noises, her bitten lips, her gripping heat around his cock. He was going to come—he was going to come quickly.

He strummed at her clit—fast—and bent his head forward, biting down on her shoulder.

And that was it—Karen was coming with a loud moan, back arching and hands clawing at Frank’s hair. Pleasure spiking out through her body in waves; she swore she could feel her toes tingling. It was almost blinding.

He followed closely behind, pumping into her once—twice more—before groaning her name and slumping back against the wall of the shower.

Karen fell forward, her forehead thudding against his shoulder, and she was absolutely limp in his grasp.

It was quiet—only their harsh panting and the sound of water falling around them filling the air.

“You know,” Karen spoke, as soon as she was able, turning her head to press a kiss to the side of Frank’s neck. “I’m not even upset about missing my usual work out now. Because _that_ was hell of a way to get some exercise.”

Frank laughed, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her to his chest. He dropped a kiss to her temple. “You’re a great exercise partner.” He nipped at the shell of her ear. Karen pulled back to smile at him.

“ _You’re_ a great partner. In general.” She lifted a hand to swipe her thumb across his bottom lip. He managed to bite the tip of it before she could pull away, making her chuckle.

They sat there for a moment, just in awe of each other. Something like relief—inevitability—hanging in the air. When the water started to run cold, Karen reached over and turned it off.

“Do you think the diner’s still open?” She ran her fingers through Frank’s hair, cupping the back of his skull gently.

“Probably. Wanna get something to eat?”

“Well I always do—after a workout.”

Frank snorted, pinching her ass. “Get dressed. Let me feed you.”

“Yes sir.”


	8. The End AKA "The Ballad of Bull Ramos"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp.....that's all, folks!

Twenty-One Days Until Castle v. Murdock –

“You know I can’t concentrate when you do that.” Shifting the laptop perched across her thighs, Karen reached down with a laugh and swatted at Frank’s hand, which was steadily climbing its way up her leg. Fingers ghosting over the soft bend of her knee. She shivered when he ignored her, continuing his leisurely perusal—blunt nails on pale, sensitized flesh.

“That’s kinda the point, Kare.” His grin was just a touch devilish as his hand dipped under the hem of her pajama shorts (a pair of his boxers, which he’d left at her apartment a few days prior), caressing her inner thigh. She bit down a desperate noise, as everything south of her waist clenched tight in anticipation.

They were sitting on Karen’s couch, her feet propped up in his lap and her back pressed against the arm rest, half-watching a Katharine Hepburn movie and half doing their own thing (which, for Frank, involved teasing Karen within an inch of her sanity). It had sounded like a good position at the time—allowed her to stretch out, lie back, and take advantage of Frank’s tendency to massage whatever part of her body was closest to his hands—until those hands began to wander, traveling the spans of her bare legs and sending bolts of electric awareness up her spine. Making it impossible for her to stay tuned in to the task at hand.

Not that Karen truly minded. Frank’s touch on her body made her feel so incredibly alive; woke up every sleeping part of her until she was a fucking Fourth of July sparkler. Tense and buzzing with need.

But now was not the time for _need_. Now was the time for _concentration_.

She shot him a faux glare, squirming under the stroking of his fingertips. With a not-at-all contrite tilt of the head, he brought his hand back down to safer territory, cupping her ankle and rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. She rewarded him with a smile, wiggling her toes so that they dug into his stomach. He chuckled, eyes darkening with a deep tenderness, and Karen felt her heart thud wildly in response. When Frank looked at her that way, like he could consume her with his gaze, everything within her melted. Her hard, sharp corners dissolving until she became a soft and gentle thing.

It was wonderful.

And terrifying.

Because the very fact that Frank Castle could make her lose herself with just one glance only added to the growing anxiety that crept in every time she began to think about what they were to each other.

Which, at the moment, was undefined.

Karen had only slept with three people, aside from Frank, in her entire life. Richard Hampton, Alex Stoneman, and Charlie Fisher. And with all three, the sex had occurred _after_ the “defining the relationship” conversation. Richard had been her first boyfriend at Columbia (the one who had taken her virginity in the back stacks of the library research archives for all of five, awkward minutes); Alex had been a one night stand who knew damn well that he was a one night stand; and Charlie had been a holiday fling over one of her spring break visits home to Vermont. With all three guys, Karen knew exactly where she stood before getting naked—she knew the score.

It wasn’t that she was a prude, or that she believed everyone needed to have “the talk” before jumping into bed together. In fact, she considered herself to be very sex positive—as long as nobody was hurting anyone else, she couldn’t give a damn about what people did with their own bodies. It was just that she knew _herself_ , and she knew that uncertainty was one of those things she didn’t handle very well. She liked to thoroughly understand the lay of the land before running headlong into any situation in which her heart might be at stake. Liked having a roadmap out; it made things safer—less sticky.

But it had been a week since that night with Frank in the gym, and she still had no idea what the hell to call whatever was happening between them. Were they dating? Were they just “seeing each other”? Were they friends with benefits? (Her very being rebelled at the idea). She had no clue what was going on in Frank’s head. What she _did_ know was as follows:

  1. Except for Saturday and Sunday, which were his days with the kids, Frank had slept at her place every night between their little rendezvous at Hoyle’s and now.
  2. They spent about 50% of those nights wrapped up in each other, making love on every surface of her apartment that could accommodate them (and some that, embarrassingly, couldn’t), and the other 50% lying on her bed, with her head resting on his chest, just talking. About everything—her father, Kevin, David and Curtis, Maria and the kids, Lake Placid—even the things she could still tell were difficult for him. There was something about pillow talk that seemed to loosen him up (or, more accurately, something about pillow talk with _Karen_ ).
  3. Things between them were so easy—so comfortable. There was a feeling of rightness that settled in the air every time he stepped past her threshold. As if they had skipped past the awkward, early stages of being with someone new and landed right at the part where the other person feels a bit like they’ve been there all along.
  4. It certainly _seemed_ like a real relationship—and the best Karen had ever had. Frank was attentive and thoughtful; made her feel safe and cared for, just as he had when they were “work friends”…
  5. But they’d yet to have a single conversation about what they were doing together. Which left Karen a little bit untethered.



With only one month to go before the big Murdock match, Curtis had been slowly ramping down Frank’s preparations, little by little, taking him from a _completely_ ridiculous amount of training to a _slightly_ _less_ ridiculous amount of training. Which meant that Frank found himself with some extra time to burn, mostly with his kids or with Karen. And she loved having him around more often—of _course_ she did—but every time he looked at her in _that_ way, or kissed her with his hungry, aching mouth, a barb of confusion worked its way into her brain.

He’d told her she was _everything_ —that night in the gym. _Everything_.

And that meant something, but Karen didn’t know what, exactly.

She would have asked—with anyone else, she would have forced a conversation; shoved them into a corner and pushed relentlessly until they gave up some answers—but with Frank, things were a little more delicate. This new, open version of him was still on unsteady ground, and she was terrified that driving him into a confrontation about their relationship would have him closing up faster than she could take the words back.

So she did her best to ignore her fear of uncertainty and force herself to enjoy what she had while she had it. If there was one lesson she’d learned in her lifetime, it was that the things she loved could disappear at a moment’s notice. She had to hold on with both hands, or they’d slip away before she even realized her fingers were grasping nothing but each other.

(Frank, for his part, had no idea that any of this was brewing beneath Karen’s surface. He thought he’d been pretty clear the other night—he was in this for good. There _was_ no doubt; only the unspoken understanding that what they were doing was _serious_ —was _real_. He didn’t think, even for a moment, that _unspoken_ wasn’t enough.)

“You’ve been at it for three hours, Kare. You still haven’t found anyone good?” Frank massaged his way down to the bridge of her foot, working his thumbs into the muscle until her head began to loll on her shoulders.

“No. I’m beginning to think there isn’t anyone good enough out there. Period.” Karen sighed, sitting up straight and running a hand through her hair. The computer screen cast a pale blue light across her face, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, for several reasons.

“Well, of course you’re gonna feel that way, sweetheart. It’s your brother.” Lifting her leg slightly, he dropped a kiss onto her big toe, giving a gentle squeeze.

“I know, I know.” She smiled, reaching out and cupping his jaw briefly—a small gesture of thanks for putting up with her. There was a part of her that recognized she was being ridiculous; overly-demanding. But a larger part of her that realized there was nothing she could do about it—she was going to feel what she was going to feel—damn the logic. When it came to her brother, that was always the way.

She’d had Kevin’s truck for a little over a month now, but it had only taken two weeks for her to realize that agreeing to keep it had been a rash decision. First of all, she already had a car, which she rarely drove (thanks to NYC public transpo and the fact that Foggy chauffeured them everywhere in the news van for work).

Secondly, storing Kevin’s truck in a rented garage in Manhattan was insanely expensive. She was shelling out about a third of the cost of her rent, monthly, just to keep the thing parked a few blocks away from her apartment. She’d only made the payment once so far, but it was pretty obvious that the arrangement wasn’t going to be sustainable forever.

And finally, it didn’t seem right for the truck to just be sitting there—doing nothing—not being driven. It was serving no purpose except to fuel Karen’s sepia-toned feelings of nostalgia.

When her father had threatened her with bringing it to the dump, the sentimental part of her brain had protested at the idea. There was no fucking way she was going to allow Kevin’s truck—his prized possession—to be turned into scrap metal. And certainly not at the hands of her father, a man whose dark, cutting bitterness had wounded everyone in her family beyond repair. So she’d ignored the logistics and jumped at the opportunity to have that piece of her bother close to her, and far away from Paxton Page.

Now that she had a little bit of time and distance away from her father—who hadn’t attempted to contact her since their disastrous lunch together—she was thinking clearly. And realizing that keeping the truck just wasn’t prudent.

Frank had been the one to suggest that she sell it, and (after a substantial amount of hemming and hawing) she’d agreed. It was a good compromise between burning money to store it and watching it get trashed at the dump. Plus, she kind of liked the idea of some piece of Kevin living on and getting a second chance; being passed down to someone worthy of driving it as her brother once had.

That was the problem, though: finding someone _worthy_.

She’d posted an ad for the truck on Craig’s List a few days ago, and since then had rejected over 50 offers, for various reasons (all of which Frank thought were a little insane).

“Lemme see.” He held out his hands, and Karen passed him the laptop, placing her feet back on the floor and sitting upright, scooting closer until her side was pressed against his arm. “Okay, what do we have here…” he scrolled down the long list of emails Karen had been trudging through. Clicking one open, he scanned the buyer profile. “What’s wrong with _this_ kid? Recent NYU grad, writes a column for _The Village Voice…_ looks normal to me.”

“Click on his user photo.”

He did. It was a picture of the guy sitting in what looked like a dorm room, clearly taken from a webcam. The resolution wasn’t that great. “Okay?”

“There.” Karen pointed to an obscure, dark object in the background.

Squinting, Frank lifted the screen closer to his face. “You’re gonna have to tell me what I’m looking at, Kare.”

“It’s clearly a bong, Frank. How can you not see that?” She pointed again, her gesture adamant. Maybe—if he tilted his head at the right angle—he could _kind_ of make it out. It was certainly a smudge that could _pass_ for bong-shaped.

“You’re kidding, right?” He lowered the laptop, raising an incredulous brow.

“I most certainly am not.”

“Kare.” There was a touch of disbelief in the way he spoke her name, and he watched her with probing eyes for a moment. But her face was set stubbornly; mouth tilted down at the corners and expression ablaze with challenge.

“These are things I have to know, Frank, if I’m going to be giving Kevin’s truck to some strange guy! I’ve got to know what kind of a person he is.”

With a half-exasperated, half-amused sigh, Frank ran a hand over his face. “I mean, so what if the kid smokes a little weed? You tellin’ me your brother never hot-boxed that truck? He was in college, Kare. And kind of a hippie, right?” He shook his head. “Trust me, that machine’s seen its fair share of grass.”

“But—” Karen started, then stopped. Frank had a point; she remembered the pungent odor that always seemed to waft from Kevin’s clothes when he’d come home for a break from college. At the time, she hadn’t known exactly what it was, but the chances of her brother getting sprayed by a skunk every time he visited from UV were pretty damn low. “It—the guy just isn’t the right fit.”

Frank observed her for a beat before exhaling loudly (the noise cut with a small, indulgent grin). “What about this one?” He clicked open another email.

“Oh god no. I looked at that guy’s Facebook and his favorite band is Coldplay.”

“And?”

“Kevin would _not_ have wanted a Coldplay fan to be driving his truck. Trust me, Frank.”

“Y’know, Kare, you don’t _have_ to sell it, we can—”

“No, no.” She interjected, waving her hand. “We talked about this. Selling it is the smartest option. I just…” she trailed off, eyes tight, frowning, “it has to go to someone perfect.”

“Okay.” Frank reached out, running a soothing hand down her hair almost absent-mindedly. “Okay. We’ll keep looking, then.”

“Thanks.”

Frank nodded, opening up another email and skimming the message. Leaning her head against his shoulder, Karen turned to press a small kiss to the body-warm cotton of his t-shirt. Inhaling subtly, she felt a smile pulling at her lips. He smelled like his brand of detergent and some masculine kind of deodorant, mixed with the subtle scent of gym chalk—a classic Frank combination. But underneath it all, an almost quiet little addition, he smelled like her bed. Like the lavender fabric softener she used with her linens.

It was one of those moments where Karen felt like pinching herself, just to make sure she wasn’t experiencing some kind of elaborate hallucination—wish fulfillment gone mad. She’d known Frank for over five years. They’d been friends for a majority of that time; he’d been a phantom memory for the rest of it. And how long had she _wanted_ him? How long had she dreamed of his strong, warm hands on her body? Of his full lips against her own? Of seeing that look of belonging in his eyes when he turned them toward her?

Too long (longer than she’d been willing to admit).

And suddenly—in the span of one week—he was _here_. In her apartment, lazing on her couch, smelling like her body on his own. Soft and whole and vital.

So what if they hadn’t exactly talked about what they were doing together—she had _this_ , and that was all that mattered. It was all that _could_ matter.

“Haven’t heard from Foggy today?” Frank’s low, rumbling voice broke Karen from her thoughts.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m a little worried about whether or not he’s still alive, to be honest. The guy they got to replace Fray doesn’t seem like the patient type. And if there’s one thing Fog’s good at, it’s testing the limits of a person’s patience.”

“New guy couldn’t be worse than Fray, though.”

“That’s true. Still.” Karen sighed. “Poor Fog. Probably thinks I’ve abandoned him.”

With Frank’s match quickly approaching, Ellison had continued to cancel many of Karen’s minor assignments and pawn them off on other reporters (ostensibly so that she could prepare for the _big_ story; though Karen suspected that Ellison, knowing she spent much of her free time at Hoyle’s Gym, was trying to subtly encourage her to weasel some insider information out of the big, bad Punisher). Unfortunately, this meant that Foggy kept getting “loaned out” to the reporters covering her stories, which (he said) made him feel like a cheap prostitute.

“Must be hard for him, going from seeing you all the time to this.” Frank opened another message, which had Karen immediately shaking her head “no” (the email signature was a quote from a Liam Neeson movie, and not even one of the good ones).

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I’m more trouble than I’m worth for poor, old Fog.” She burrowed a little further into his side, draining his warmth for herself. “You know his job is only like 50% acting as my camera man and 50% keeping me from going ballistic on assholes.”

“Just sayin’,” Frank shrugged, causing Karen’s head to bob up and down with the movement. “If I had to go from seeing you all the time to not seeing you in weeks, it’d be fucking rough.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s _true_. Go crazy without you, sweetheart.”

 It was his tone that did it to her. The rough quality—like the rolling of thunder—an unwavering edge. It had every inch of her skin tingling in sweet anticipation. The air in the room charged instantly.

“Frank.” She reached out, grabbing the laptop from his hands and discarding it on the coffee table. His eyes were on hers instantly, shading with want the moment they saw her own pupils blown wide.

“Kare.” His mouth popped open ever-so-slightly, tongue running along his bottom lip. _God_ , that mouth—he could convince her to do terrible, terrible things with that mouth. Karen was crawling into his lap before he could react, throwing one leg over his thighs until she was straddling him, hands in his hair.

A deep, low noise left his throat in the handful of seconds before her lips descended—ravenous and slow. The kind of kiss that couldn’t decide if it had all the time in the world or if it needed to devour _now_. Needed to take and give and drown.

His hands were at her waist, fingers digging into giving flesh, dragging her closer—always closer. With a half-broken moan, Karen pressed herself further into his chest, so that every inhale and exhale he took moved through her body—hard lines of muscle against soft curves. Rolling her hips forward, she was delighted to find him rigid and ready beneath her, straining against his sweatpants and the thin cotton of her boxers.

“Pick up, asshole.”

The sound of David Lieberman’s voice cut through the dense haze of desire. Had Karen jerking back instantly. It was the custom text notification the ridiculous man had recorded on Frank’s phone.

Glancing over her shoulder, in the direction of the interruption, Karen frowned.

“No.” Frank whispered, cupping her jaw and drawing her lips to his own once again. She hesitated for only a beat, but the second Frank’s tongue swept across her lower lip, she was back in the moment. Hot and wanting. Her nails dragging across his scalp, causing him to twitch beneath her.

“Pick up, asshole.”

The phone chimed again, and Karen pulled away fully this time, a short, little laugh bubbling from her throat. Groaning, Frank wrapped his arms around her possessively and bucked his hips upward so that she could feel him, hard and insistent, against her core. It was a convincing bid for her attention, but not convincing enough.

“Frank.” Karen disentangled her limbs enough to reach up and grab his face, dropping a kiss to his furrowed brow. “It could be important. You should check.”

“Don’t want to.” Hands gripping almost pleadingly at her back, Frank shook his head. His fingers slipped below the hem of her shirt, stroking their way across the band of her pajama bottoms.

“Pick up, asshole.”

“Okay, that’s it.” There was humor in Karen’s voice as she slipped out of his embrace, making her way to the kitchen to grab his phone from the counter. An irritated growl left Frank’s throat as she did, and if he were the kind of man to pout, Karen was sure that’s what he would be doing. “What?” She asked, returning to drop the phone into his lap. “I can’t make out with you if David’s voice is going to be calling you an asshole every few seconds.”

Frank grumbled something that sounded like “gonna murder him” while swiping open the messages. As he read, Karen took her place at his side, turning her head to nip gently at his shoulder. He made a small noise of protest, which actually sounded more like enjoyment, and began tapping out a response.

“Anything important?”

Shifting, Frank watched her with a considering look on his face. A quiet moment passed. “How do you feel about bar-be-que?”

“Uh…” Karen frowned slightly, thrown by the off-topic question. “I don’t think I have feelings one way or the other. Why?”

“Well back, y’know, _before_ —when I was fighting—we had this tradition. Curtis and David and me.” Tossing his phone to the side, Frank reached out to drag Karen back into his lap. When she was settled into her previous position, he continued. “David would throw this big family bar-be-que before every match. To cut the tension and just get everyone together.”

“That sounds nice.” Karen tunneled her fingers into his hair, tilting his head back so that she could look into his half-lidded eyes, still dark with desire.

“Yeah, it is.” He nodded in her grasp. “He’s planning one for next weekend. Wanna come?”

Karen froze. “I—you want me to come? To a family bar-be-que?”

Frank’s expression clouded with confusion. “Yeah. Is that—do you not want to?”

“No, no!” Karen was quick to respond. “I do. I just…won’t that be weird, maybe?”

“Weird? Why?”

“Well…because I’m not family.”

A beat of silence, in which Frank felt like he had a million things he wanted to say, but no idea how to say them. The uncertain glint in Karen’s eye had his gut twisting uncomfortably—he didn’t like that she didn’t view herself as family. That she would ever be unsure about her place in his life.

“Karen, you’re—” He choked on the words. What could he tell her? That she was the only person in the world he trusted with the most damaged, fragmented parts of himself? That she was his constant reminder of all the beautiful, compassionate reaches of humanity? That she made breathing easier—made even the most difficult, harsh realities of the world grow calm in her presence? “You’re family. You _are_. _My_ family.”

Karen’s heart was careening away in her chest almost instantly, pounding hard and true. So loudly she was sure Frank could hear it if he tried.

“I—” She started to speak, but stopped, her throat suddenly tight; an unexpected tingling sensation building up behind her eyes. _Fuck_ , she was going to cry. Blinking rapidly, she pushed the tears down.

_Family._

For so long, that word had hurt to hear. Hurt to _say_ —like barbed wire scraping its way out of her mouth, tearing up every tender thing in its path. A wound too old and too jagged to mend. Because what was _family_ to Karen? What did it really mean?

Grief, cruelty, death, disappointment, resentment, anger, fear.

She’d given up on family a long time ago. Decided it was a Hallmark dream that would never come true for her.

But when Frank said it—when he called her _family_ —all she saw was warmth. The beauty of human connection; of reaching out with clutching, desperate hands and grabbing ahold of someone else whose was reaching out as well. Building a home in the space between—making shelter from bodies. The sense of belonging; of _choosing_ another person and saying, “here—this is where I want to be.”

It was enough to make her forget the years in which _family_ had been nothing but another word for _loss_. If only for a little while.

But she couldn’t put that feeling into words—couldn’t even understand it herself. So she just kissed him like a woman unraveling. With every wrecked, mending, beautiful part of herself.

And he held on for all he could. Let himself get swept away in the depth of her tides.

If he noticed the edge of frenzy in her embrace, he didn’t say anything. He was right there with her.

 

Nineteen Days Until Castle v. Murdock –

“I’m telling you, Kare. This guy is the worst. He’s so fucking incompetent—he wrote his interview questions for Coach Metzger on his _hand_.” Foggy slammed back a shot of vodka, hissing as the alcohol slid down his throat, none-too-gently. “And not even in Sharpie,” he continued. “In _regular pen_. He couldn’t read it properly, it was so smudged. He spent the whole thirty minutes just squinting at his palm like that would somehow help things.”

“At least he’s not Fray.” Trish shook her head, sipping her G&T. “Just be thankful for that.”

Karen nodded in agreement, sending Fog a sympathetic look. They were all three jammed into a corner booth at Josie’s, waiting for Jess to finish up the game of pool she’d been roped into by the intimidating bikers a few tables over.

It was 9pm on a Thursday night and everyone was exhausted. Foggy from running around town with Newton Hanks (the Fray replacement he was currently railing against), Trish from having to put in extra hours on behalf of her co-anchor, who was on paternity leave, and Karen from spending another day arguing with Ellison about why she wasn’t trying to take advantage of her friendship with Frank to get some insider info on the upcoming match. Nobody was really in the mood to go out, but it was the first night in weeks where their schedules had aligned, so they had to grab hold of the opportunity when it arose.

“You know, the last I heard, Fray was trolling around the shitty local channels looking for a job.” Foggy snickered. “Nobody wants to hire him after his little Twitter rant. He’s a liability to have around.”

“Yeah, well it’s about time he got some comeuppance for all the crap he’s pulled on me over the years. I can’t really find it in my heart to be sympathetic to the guy.” Rolling her eyes, Karen pushed the straw around her Jack and Coke with the tip of her finger.

“I heard even the online branch of WCNY turned him down. That’s bottom-of-the-barrel stuff.” Trish tutted. “Misogyny never pays, kids.”

“I’m definitely glad Fray’s out. All I’m saying is that I’ll be so relieved when this Castle/Murdock thing is over,” Foggy grumbled, dragging a hand down his hang-dog face. “Then they’ll give you back to me, Kare. And I won’t have to put up with all your dickhole colleagues.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to that, too.” Karen thumped Foggy’s back in a comforting gesture. “I’m honestly getting a little bored without all the usual nonsense Ellison assigns me. Prepping for Castle v. Murdock’s a big deal, sure. But he didn’t have to give away _all_ of my other assignments. I feel like I spend most of my days just twiddling my thumbs at my desk.”

“Better bored than overworked.” Downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, Trish winced. “You know I’ve worked over 70 hours this week, and it’s only Thursday?”

“Yikes.” Karen grimaced, while Trish let her head fall forward, thudding against the table.

“I know.” Her voice was muffled, mouth pressed against the grimy wood. “I’ve even been having anxiety nightmares where I’m trying to read the teleprompter, but it’s all in Gaelic.”

 “Woah now. Don’t have too much fucking fun over here. Everyone else in the bar is getting jealous.” Jess suddenly appeared at Karen’s elbow, arms crossed, eyeing all three of her friends. They looked pitiful—like the world’s worst drinking buddies gathered in one place. When nobody responded, she slid into the empty spot next to Trish. “Seriously—it’s like a crypt over here. Where fun goes to die.”

“We’re all too tired to be fun tonight, Jess.” Trish lifted her head, running a hand through disheveled hair (it was the first time since undergrad that Karen had ever seen the woman look less than camera ready).

“Well _I’m_ not. And I demand you entertain me.” Snatching up what was left of Karen’s drink, Jess took a generous sip.

“If I’d have known my jester services were going to be required tonight, I would have brought my juggling balls.” Foggy deadpanned.

“Don’t tease a girl, Fog. If a man says he can juggle, I expect to see some juggling.”

Karen’s attention was drawn away from the conversation by the beeping of her phone. Slipping it from her purse, she saw Frank’s name flash across the screen.

_About the BBQ. Next Friday at 6 work for you? David’s a little too excited about it. I saw him buying a “Kiss the Cook” apron on Amazon yesterday._

Biting back a grin, Karen typed out her response.

_Yes to next Friday. Though I think I’d rather kiss the cook’s good-looking friend, to be honest._

_I think he’d rather kiss you too_. The answer was quick.

_Oh, I’m sorry, did you think I was referring to you? I meant Curtis._

There was a beat, in which Karen could only imagine the outraged look on Frank’s face.

_You’re gonna pay for that one, Page._

_Looking forward to it._

“Karen? _Karen_?”

“Huh?” She looked up to see Trish staring at her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. In fact, Jess and Foggy were watching her intently as well.

“I’ve been asking if you want another round for like two minutes.” Trish frowned, craning her neck to get a glimpse at Karen’s screen. “What’s got you so distracted?”

“Sorry, I was just—” She quickly shoved her phone back into her purse before anyone could see Frank’s name.

“You were texting Frank.” Foggy filled in, watching her with a challenging look in his eye.

“I was n—” Karen started, but the expression on his face dared her to continue with the lie. She pursed her lips, glancing away.

“Frank _Castle_?” Trish was suddenly much perkier than she had been before. “We’re talking about Frank Castle here?”

“Judging by the splotches of red taking over Kare’s face, I’d definitely say we’re talking about Frank Castle.” With a devious smirk, Jess leaned forward. “Aren’t we, Miss Page?”

“I—we—” Karen stuttered, feeling trapped. The one good thing about all of their schedules getting out of sync was the fact that Trish and Jess hadn’t been able to harass her about Frank for a few weeks. A few blissful weeks of not having to desperately avoid the topic every time it came up.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Jess clapped her hands together almost gleefully. “Look how flustered she is. She can’t even deny it.”

“He’s just—” Karen cast out desperately for something to say to divert the conversation. Anything to grab the collective attention being aimed her way.

“He’s just a ‘casual friend from the gym.’ Yep, we know. We’ve heard it a million times.” Trish pursed her lips.

“But do we believe it?” Foggy asked.

“Oh, not a chance.” Jess answered.

“See, because I don’t usually grin like an idiot when one of my casual gym buddies texts me.” Slipping her chin into the palm of her hand, Trish levelled Karen with a penetrating gaze.

“I don’t even _have_ casual gym buddies. Because, y’know, I don’t even _go_ to the gym.” There was humor in Foggy’s voice.

“It’s not like that.” Karen protested. “He’s—” the idea was in her head before she could stop it. “He’s helping me find a buyer for Kevin’s truck.”

As soon as her brother’s name left her mouth, the atmosphere at the table changed. Jess’s maniacal grin dropped, Foggy’s brow furrowed, and Trish’s lips pulled down at the corners. There was a tense pause, in which everyone seemed to sober up, just a little. They all knew about Kevin—knew that he was one of Karen’s sore spots; an area of her life she didn’t often bring up.

“You—Kevin’s truck?” There was more than a hint of concern in Trish’s voice.

“Yeah. We— _I_ —finally decided it’s time to do something with it.” Shrugging, Karen tried for nonchalant. “It’s been sitting in the garage in Vermont for too long. My dad’s moving out of the house and needed to get rid of it. So I’m selling it.”

“You have it here? In New York?” Foggy was shifting forward. “How did it get here? Did your Dad—”

“No.” Karen cut him off. “A towing company brought it down.” It took a little effort not to flinch as the lie left her mouth, but she managed. It was just easier than telling the truth.

For one, Jess still didn’t know much of anything about Karen’s father, and if she mentioned that she’d seen him in person, Trish and Foggy would flip their shit, leading to a long and winding conversation about Paxton Page that Karen wasn’t really ready to have. And secondly, revealing that she’d had lunch with the man would likely lead to the confession that Frank had gone with her. And if the whole point of bringing up the truck was to distract from the Frank issue, then they would end up right back where they started. So it was easier to lie.

“So you’re…” Trish trailed off.

“You’re _selling_ it?” Foggy finished.

“Yeah. I kind of have to, I think. The alternative was sending it to the dump and I couldn’t do that.”

“And Frank’s helping you with this because…?” Jess waved her hands about in a vague gesture.

“Uh, well,” Karen hated adding lies on top of lies, but what could she do. “He saw me driving it to the gym the other day and asked about it. I mentioned that I was trying to sell it, and he said he’d send out some feelers around the neighborhood.”

“Hmm.” There was a touch of something that sounded like skepticism in Trish’s tone. She didn’t know why, but Karen’s story felt a little fishy. “So you haven’t found anyone yet? A buyer?”

“No.” Shaking her head, Karen avoided all three pairs of eyes. She didn’t like the way her friends were looking at her. With a mixture of doubt, worry, and something else. “I haven’t found anyone who’s, uh…good enough.”

Trish’s face softened. “Oh, Kare.” She reached out, placing a hand on her friend’s arm.

“Well, what have you been using? To get the word out?” Foggy asked.

“Craig’s List.”

“There’s your problem!” Jess threw up her hands. “The only people who use Craig’s List are total crazies. Psycho-murderers and shit like that.”

“ _I’m_ using Craig’s List.” Karen argued.

“You’re one of the innocents who get lured in. There can’t be psychotic murderers without victims.”

“That’s so dark, Jess.” Trish grimaced. “Look, Kare, I got a buddy whose kid is graduating Columbia in a few months. I think I remember her saying that he’s going to be moving out of NYC. He might need a car. Let me get in contact with him and set up a phone call or something.”

“Is he a good kid?”

“Yeah, he is. Biomedical engineering student. Straight As, no history of drugs. I’m pretty sure he went to a Mountain Goats concert last year.”

“Say no more.” Karen held up a hand. “Give him my information.”

Trish chuckled, grinning. “Sure thing; trust me, we’ll make sure Kevin’s truck finds a good home.”

“Thanks.”

It was quiet for a moment, as some of the tension seemed to drain away.

“What kind of truck we talkin’ about anyway?” Foggy asked.

“You know anything about trucks?” The incredulity in Jess’s voice was thick.

“No. I just like to pretend I do. Makes me sound cool.”

Jess snorted, Trish rolled her eyes, and Karen was thankful that the conversation had been redirected back to safer territory. She felt her phone vibrate in her purse—another text from Frank—and had to exert and inhuman amount of strength not to yank it out and read it immediately.

She could wait. In fact, she’d left a spare key under her doormat for him earlier in the day, and he’d promised to be at her apartment when she got home. Hopefully in her bed.

For _that_ , she could _definitely_ wait.

 

Eleven Days Before Castle v. Murdock –

“Oh man, I’m so nervous. I feel like I’m going to puke.” Karen ran sweaty palms down the thighs of her jeans, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“Why? There’s nothing to be nervous about.” Frank shifted the container of potato salad he was holding to one hand, using the other to ring the doorbell of the Lieberman house. “You’ve met almost everyone before.”

“Not David’s wife. Or your son.” There was a slight edge of panic creeping into her voice.

“Come on. They’re gonna love you, sweetheart.” Frank nudged her with his elbow—their standard gesture of comfort. Karen was about to nudge back when the door swung open, revealing a willowy blonde with a mega-watt smile.

“Hi there! You must be Karen Page!” It was the first thing out of the woman’s mouth the moment she opened the door. “I’m Sarah. I am so excited to meet you!” She surprised Karen, reaching out to grab her in a hug.

“Oh, hi.” Sending Frank a confused, sidelong glance, Karen hugged back. She didn’t come from a touchy-feely family—it had taken her _years_ to even lay a hand on Frank—so the greeting was a bit of a shock. Not a bad shock; just a shock. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“David and Curtis have both told me so much about you. How you’ve been so helpful for Frank’s training. I’ve just been dying to get you over to the house.” There was a natural bubbliness to the woman that reminded Karen a little bit of Trish. Grabbing her by the upper arm, Sarah ushered her into the entryway, almost vibrating with excitement.

“Hey, Sarah. I’m here, too.” Frank’s greeting was wry as he stepped inside as well.

“Oh, hey, Frank.” Sarah turned to him, as though noticing his presence for the first time. “The boys are out back by the grill, talking shop. I’ll get that dish from you if you want to join them.” She reached out for the potato salad. “Maria and I just popped a bottle of wine in the kitchen—I’ll take Karen with me.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking to Karen for some kind of signal—waiting to see if she needed him to stay by her side. He didn’t want to abandon her in a situation where she was already so nervous. With a small grin, she waved her hand, giving him the go ahead.

“Okay, sounds good.” Frank handed over the bowl, still eyeing Karen—lingering—giving her a chance to take an out. It was sweet, his concern, and she felt the affection welling up in her chest. Only after he was absolutely sure that she was okay being left without him did he head toward the back yard.

“Wine sounds amazing, Sarah.” Karen reached out to take the potato salad from her hands. “Point me toward the kitchen.”

“Yes ma’am!” Taking her again by the elbow, Sarah steered her down the main hallway. Karen couldn’t help but feel a little nosy, taking in every detail of the house as she went. She’d always been interested in family spaces—fascinated by the little signs of comfort and love scattered about. The ones she’d grown up without. And the Lieberman’s home was jam packed with them; a cozy atmosphere seemed to permeate the place, making it feel lived-in. Backpacks shoved haphazardly into a hallway closet, school photos artfully hung from every wall, sneakers trailing up the front stairs. Artifacts of a family growing into each other; limbs on a tree intertwining.

It filled Karen was a vague, powerful longing.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here!” Maria was shoving a glass of red wine into Karen’s hand as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. “Do you know anything about rugby?”

It took Karen a moment to gain her bearings, it was such an unusual greeting (which seemed to be theme of the evening). No “hello” or “nice to see you again”—just plowing straight into conversation. But it was done in such a welcoming way, as though Maria and Karen were longtime friends who didn’t need pleasantries, rather than acquaintances who’d only met once.

“Uh yes. Yeah, I know a little bit about rugby.” Karen accepted the glass as the potato salad was whisked away into the fridge.

“Great. Perfect.” Pulling her over to a stool set up at the kitchen island, Maria directed her to take a seat. “I was just telling Sarah that I’ve been seeing this guy who is completely obsessed with rugby, and I have absolutely no idea what the game is even about. And at this point, I’m too embarrassed to ask.”

“I told her to just Wikipedia it, but she said all the rules were confusing.” Grabbing her own stool, Sarah joined them, wine in hand.

“I mean, why would I read an entire Wikipedia page when I have a friend who literally studies sports for a living?” Maria gestured at Karen.

_Friend._

It almost struck Karen as strange, to hear the other woman call her _friend_ , when all they’d ever had was a five minute conversation with each other. But then she remembered something Frank had said to her the other night, when they’d been lying in bed wrapped up in one another. About how he and Maria were such opposites. Whereas he took years to thaw toward new people, she was the kind of person who could strike up a discussion with the bag boy at the grocery store and remember his name the next time she stopped in. Made friends on the subway with random people she’d never see again; liked to treat everyone as though they were family, whether they wanted her to or not. A smile quirked at Karen’s lips—Frank was right—cheerful, sociable Maria was his polar opposite.

“Well, how important is it to this guy that you know everything about rugby?” Karen leaned against the island, slipping her chin into the palm of her hand.

“I mean, it would be kind of weird if _you_ didn’t know about boxing, with you dating Frank and all.” Maria shrugged. “It’s kind of the same thing with this guy.”

“Oh, no.” Karen was sitting up in an instant, eyes wide. “Frank and I—we—we’re not—we don’t—”

Maria and Sarah exchanged knowing glances, eyes alight with glee.

“Oh hush, come on now. It’s fine.” Maria waved her off, and Karen was too stunned to form much of a response.

“You don’t have to pretend with us.” Sipping her wine, Sarah nodded.

“But we—it’s not like—” Karen’s protest died on her lips, because she didn’t really know what to say. If it _wasn’t_ like that—what _was_ it like? She was confused enough about her relationship with Frank, she couldn’t even begin to make sense of it to someone else.

“So rugby.” Maria folded her hands in her lap, as though preparing to listen attentively to whatever Karen had to say. “Give me a crash course.”

 

Talking to Maria and Sarah was the easiest thing in the world—Karen had no idea what she’d been so nervous about only an hour before. Both women were incredibly welcoming and kind; it truly felt like she’d slid seamlessly into their decades-long friendship without the slightest fuss. But she should have known—she really should have—these people were Frank’s friends; his _family_. He wouldn’t have surrounded himself with anyone less than absolutely lovely.

The conversation was flowing—never an awkward moment. Sarah and Maria were both absolutely fascinated by Karen’s career, and couldn’t get enough of her “behind-the-scenes” stories (they both admitted that they thought Trish Walker was the most fabulous woman they’d ever seen—so put-together and classy on the news every night—and couldn’t believe that she and Karen were friends). They had a blast, mining Karen for information about what their favorite athletes were like (though they were admittedly disappointed to hear that the cute shortstop for the Yankees was a total pervert in real life).

Maria also shared stories—hers about the many dating mishaps she’d gotten herself into over the years. Like the time she’d gone home with a man after date three, only to wake up in the morning to realize that he still lived with his mother. She’d walked downstairs to find the woman making pancakes in the kitchen, greeting her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Or the time, a few years back, when she’d gone out with a guy she met at a school fundraiser, only to realize later that he was Lisa’s teacher’s ex-husband.

The men filtered through the house at various points in the evening—sometimes to grab a beer or snag some of the chips and salsa on the island or join in the conversation. David had walked in smack in the middle of an embarrassing story Sarah was telling about their first date, and spent fifteen minutes explaining how he did _not_ spill an entire plate of linguini on her lap—it was definitely the waiter’s fault (Sarah, behind his back, kept shaking her head and mouthing “no it wasn’t”).

Every time Frank popped into the kitchen and saw Karen, so at-ease with Maria and Sarah, it did something to him. Stirred up the feeling of home in his bones. Had him fighting, desperately, the need to touch her. It was a losing battle. But at least he tried to be subtle about it—running his hand across the small of her back when he passed or letting the tips of his fingers linger on her own when he grabbed her wine glass for a sip—but Maria and Sarah both picked up on the subtle touches, sending secretive glances at each other every time.

 

It wasn’t until two hours or so into the evening, when Curtis switched from grilling the veggie skewers to starting on the meat, that the kids made an appearance. Slamming through the front door like a herd of over-excited puppies, smelling of sunshine and the outdoors.

“Mom! We rode our bikes passed the school and they’re putting in a new soccer field!” A boy that Karen recognized as Zack Lieberman from the family photos in the entryway practically skidded to a halt as he barreled toward his mother.

“Yeah! It looks like it’s going to be finished soon—and then we can actually play on a _real_ field, not in the street!” The second Lieberman kid—Leo—burst in, slinging an arm around her brother with a grin.

“That’s great! It’ll be a whole lot safer, huh?” Sarah licked her thumb, reaching out to wipe a smudge of dirt from Leo’s cheek (the girl recoiled with a disgusted look). “Now don’t be rude, kids. We have company—say hello.”

“Hi, Aunt Maria,” the kids said, practically in chorus. Then Leo turned to Karen. “And you’re Uncle Frank’s girlfriend, right? Miss Page? I’m Leo and this is my brother, Zack.” The girl squeezed her brother in an imitation headlock, and he pretended to choke in her grip.

“I—uh—” Karen stuttered, looking back and forth between both women present, unsure about the “girlfriend” part of that statement, before shrugging. There was no use getting into the whole spiel with a kid. “You can call me Karen.”

“Karen.” Zack repeated. “Cool. You’re the one who’s always on TV, right?”

“Well, not _always_ on TV. But sometimes.”

“Karen! You’re here!” It was a familiar voice that had her whipping around to look down the front hallway. Running in, her bike helmet still on her head, was Lisa Castle. Trailed closely by a boy who could only be Frankie Jr.

“Hey kiddo!” Karen managed to brace herself just in time for the girl to collide into her side, a massive smile on her face. “How’s it going?”

“Good! I was telling Leo about how I knew a celebrity. But she said you’re not really a celebrity until you’ve been in a movie. I told her she was wrong, though, because you’re on TV all the time. But Leo said it didn’t count, because nobody but my family thinks you’re famous.” The girl looked back and forth between Karen and her friend, who was turning a little bit red with the attention.

“Leo!” Sarah looked aghast, turning to her daughter with wide eyes. Stifling a giggle, Maria lifted a hand to cover her mouth.

And Karen couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of her, throwing back her head, shoulders shaking—she laughed so hard, in fact, that she had to plant a hand on the kitchen island to catch herself as she almost toppled off of the stool.

“What? What’s she laughing at?” Lisa, brow furrowed, looked back and forth between Karen and her mother, trying to get a read on what was so funny.

Wiping a tear from her eye, Karen shook her head. “I hate to say it, Lisa, but I think Leo’s right. I’m really not that famous!”

“But you’re on TV all the time!” The girl protested.

“So’s the guy who sells mattresses on 14th street and wears the big bear suit, but he’s not a celebrity.” Zack offered up, nodding sagely at his own addition to the conversation.

“Yeah.” Lisa pursed her lips, thinking. “I guess you’re right.” She shrugged. “Oh well, I still think you’re cool, Karen.”

“Oh, well thank you.” Karen was absolutely tickled by the conversation. She didn’t often get to spend time around other people’s kids, and had forgotten how much fun they could be. All id and absolutely no filter.

“Hey mom—is Dad in the backyard?” Leo craned her neck to look through the sliding glass door that led out to the grill.

“Yeah, with Uncle Frank and Uncle Curtis.”

“Ah, cool. Come on Zack,” she started dragging her brother out the door. “We gotta show him that rock you picked up. I bet it’s worth something.”

Sarah watched, face softened with affection, as her kids exited to find their father. Leaving the Castles behind, Lisa staring kind of moony-eyed at Karen (a fair imitation of her dad, actually), and Frankie still lingering in the doorway, looking a little unsure.

“Frankie, come here. Say hi.” Maria held out her arms, and the boy approached. His expression was shuttered and shy; a little withdrawn. And Karen remembered what Frank had told her so long ago—he was a bit of a sensitive kid. A tad socially-awkward. Lisa was the firecracker, always making friends and talking off anyone’s ear who would listen; Frankie was more of a loner—not as comfortable around new people as his sister.

“Hey Frankie. I’m Karen.” She stuck out her hand, and the boy hesitated a moment before shaking it.

“I told Frankie about how you and me sparred that one time, and he didn’t believe me. But you can tell him now, right?” Lisa reached out and ruffled her brother’s hair affectionately.

“Yeah, we did.” Karen nodded. “Your sister kinda kicked my butt. You know, you and I can spar someday if you want.”

Frankie shook his head, and Maria gave him a little squeeze.

“Frankie doesn’t like to fight. He likes video games.” Grabbing a handful of chips from the bowl on the island, Lisa spoke around a mouthful. “Like, a _lot_.” She pointed to his t-shirt.

“Oh yeah?” Karen tilted her head, eyes darting down to the shirt, and her lips quirked upward in victory—it bore a logo she recognized. “Aperture Laboratories? You play Portal?”

“Yeah.” Frankie’s eyes lit up the second she mentioned the game. “You know it?”

“ _Do_ I?” Pressing a hand to her chest, Karen sat up a little straighter. “I’ll have you know that my best friend in the entire world is a huge Portal fan. I’ve played both games.”

“Really?”

“Multiple times, actually.”

“So you—you’ve beaten them? Like all the levels and stuff?” Frankie pulled away from his mother’s side.

“Mm-hmm. GLaDOS _and_ Wheatley.”

“Oh, you got him started _now_. He’s not gonna shut up any time soon.” With a sigh, Lisa rolled her eyes. Frankie seemed to deflate a bit, and Karen was quick to speak up.

“Oh that’s okay. I don’t mind. You should meet my friend Foggy—he can go on and on and on.”

If she’d thought to look up at the other woman, Karen would have caught Maria watching her with a shade of approval.

“You—do you—” the boy was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m stuck on this one level, do you think you could help me? I asked Lisa and mom, but they both couldn’t figure it out.”

“What? _Now_? Do you—” Karen pointed over her shoulder.

“I brought the game. To play with Zack. But he couldn’t figure it out either. It’s really hard.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Maria cut in, sending Karen an apologetic look. “I’m sure Karen doesn’t want to play video games right now. Maybe some other time, right?” Frankie’s smile fell.

“No, that’s—,” Karen cut in. “I mean, we probably have another hour or so until the food’s ready, right? I can totally help you beat a level.”

“Really?”

“Really?”

 Both Frankie and Maria looked at her in shock.

“Yeah, I mean,” Karen shrugged. “I’m very good at Portal.”

“You don’t have to—” Maria started to speak, but Karen waved her off with a dismissive hand.

“It’d be my pleasure, really.”

“Awesome!” Lisa grabbed her brother’s hand, as well as Karen’s, and started yanking them out of the kitchen toward the living room. “Karen’s gonna play video games!”

“Thank you,” Maria mouthed when Karen glanced back, grinning crookedly.

There was a quiet pause after the kids left the kitchen, seemingly taking all of the energy with them.

“I mean, can I just say that I really love Karen?” Shaking her head, Sarah refilled Maria’s wine glass generously.

“I think I kind of love her too.” Maria smiled.

 

“So…” Curtis looked up from the grill (where he was currently waiting for the right moment to flip each of the burgers) to watch Frank setting condiments on the outdoor table. “Bringing Karen to a family BBQ. That’s a big deal, huh?”

Frank didn’t even pause in his task, grunting a vague response.

David, who’d been laying out the silverware, glanced up at Curtis with an “I told you so” expression on his face. Because he _had_ —told him so, that is. Frank was sticking to his tried-and-true standard, choosing to remain tight-lipped about his relationship with Karen.

“I mean, all I’m sayin’,” Curtis continued, undaunted by the less-than-encouraging response from Frank, “is that we’ve been having these little get-togethers for how many years now? And you’ve never brought anyone around before. And then, all of the sudden—Karen.”

With a sigh, Frank stopped to stare at Curtis, who studiously avoided his eyes.

“You goin’ somewhere with this, man?”

“Nope. Just sayin’.” Holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, Curtis shrugged.

“I think what my dear friend and colleague is getting at,” David butted in, “is that clearly there’s something special going on with Karen. And as your best friends since childhood—though, some of us have been here longer than others—” he pointed to himself, “we are entitled to know what that special thing is.”

“I’m sorry, you’re _what_?” Frank turned, raising a brow at his manager. “ _Entitled_?”

“Not _entitled_.” Curtis cut in, sending David a sharp look. “But that we…we feel like it might be within the scope of our friendship for you to enlighten us as to your relationship status.”

“Why do you always talk that way when you’re being weasel-y, Curtis?” David frowned.

“Talk _what_ way?”

“ _It might be within the scope of our friendship_ ,” David repeated in a snooty accent. “Like you’re some kind of pretentious lawyer or something.”

“What, so making use of my extensive vocabulary and colorful syntax makes me pretentious? And I wasn’t being ‘weasel-y.’”

“ _My extensive vocabulary and colorful syntax_.” Pretending to straighten an invisible tie, David put on the voice again.

“Man, will you stop that?” Curtis almost threw his tongs at the other man, but held back. “You’re getting us off track here. We were talking about Frank and Karen.”

“No we weren’t.” Frank, who had been looking back and forth between his two friends in amusement, shook his head.

“Yes, we were.”

“Nope. _You_ were, but I was not having any part in that conversation.”

“You know, Frank, you are such a weird guy sometimes.” David rounded the table, clapping a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I mean, I’ve known you since we were shitting in diapers, and sometimes I still can’t figure out what’s going on in your head.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” David continued. “That you somehow feel totally comfortable bringing Karen to our _family_ BBQ as your guest—which is a totally intimate move, by the way, but you refuse to actually talk about your relationship? It makes no sense. We _all_ see what’s going on here.”

“Oh, do we _all_ see what’s going on here?”

“Yeah man, we do.” Curtis began flipping the burgers, poorly hiding a grin.

“And what is it that we all see?”

“That you’re, like… _stupid_ in love with Karen Page.” It was David who answered, thumping Frank’s back in a gesture clearly meant to convey comradery, but made Frank feel like he was being saved from choking.

“I don’t—” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Noticed with annoyance the little entertained glance that passed between his friends. With a sigh, he ran a hand down his face. “When will the burgers be done?”

Not even surprised at the change of topic, Curtis chuckled. “Give it like ten minutes.”

“Okay. I’m going to round up the kids. Don’t follow me in there—I need a minute from you two idiots.”

Walking into the kitchen, Frank’s brow instantly furrowed. There was Maria, sitting at the island, and Sarah, chopping lime wedges for the Dos Equis. But where was Karen?

He didn’t even have to open his mouth—as soon as Maria glanced up and saw the look on his face, she pointed in the direction of the living room with a smile.

“Use the blue gel! The blue gel!”

“No, no, no! You need to use the white to make a portal there, and then you jump down and it’ll pop you out up there!”

“No—you’re both wrong—she needs to use the propulsion gel first.”

Frank heard the kids before he saw them—Zack, Frankie, Leo, and Lisa all speaking over each other in excited voices.

“No, trust me. I’ve done this before. I got this.” And then Karen’s voice—laughing. Rounding the corner to the entrance of the living room, Frank had to stop and admire what he saw. Karen, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, an X-Box controller in her hands, with Lisa and Frankie hanging off of either shoulder; Leo and Zack spread out on the floor to her side, eyes glued intently to the screen. It was game he recognized—one he saw Frankie playing all the time at home.

“Wait for it…” Karen’s tongue peeked out from between her lips as she pressed a series of buttons on the controller. Everyone seemed to lean forward in anticipation, waiting for something to happen, and then—

“OOOOOHHHHH!!!!” All of the kids erupted into cheers, for what reason, Frank had no idea. Karen pumped her fist into the air, then high-fived Frankie, who was looking like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I _told_ you I could do it!” She reached out and ruffled his hair, and unlike when his father did it, Frankie didn’t try to pull away.

The warmth that had been slowly building in Frank’s chest all night worked its way up to his throat, tightening until the feeling was almost too much. He looked at Karen, surrounded by his kids—smiling and at ease—and he saw something he couldn’t explain. Like catching a glimpse of the future, but a better future than he could have ever imagined for himself. Than he felt he deserved.

In those two years following the shooting, living in isolation up on Lake Placid, Frank had learned a thing or two about hope. It was the ineffable element keeping humanity heaving and clawing and tripping along; the wild, pounding spirit that made every terrible defeat survivable—that made life from decay. Beaten, broken, drowning—as long as a person had _hope_ , they could force their pulse to find the fight to pound.

Even just a sliver of the stuff was enough.

In his darkest years, all Frank had hoped for was the chance to fight again. To be able to provide for his family. To see his children grow old. To maybe one day wake up without any guilt or fear or pain. That was all he’d thought he _could_ hope for; all that was within his grasp.

But _love_? To find that feeling again—to sink so heavily into another person that they feel like home? He never let himself hope for that. It didn’t seem right; was too much to ask.

But then there was Karen.

God, _Karen_.

He didn’t know when—and he certainly didn’t know how—but at some point he’d let himself get so lost inside of her that eventually he’d thrown away the map leading out, content to wander. Let himself be vulnerable, because allowing her to see all of the broken parts of himself didn’t feel like a weakness—it made him feel held. Safe and light.

There was a part of Frank convinced he’d cheated the universe somehow. That he’d received some kind of gift he sure as shit didn’t deserve. Seeing her at home with Frankie and Lisa? It was so beautiful, it felt unreal. Cut to the very core of him.

“Dad!” Frankie, who had finally noticed his father standing in the doorway, was ambling toward him in excitement. “Karen beat the level I couldn’t get out of! And she didn’t even die once or anything!”

“Wow, Frankie, that’s—” he broke off, clearing his throat, which was thick with emotion. “That’s great!”

“Yeah!” Then quieter, almost conspiratorially: “She’s so cool, Dad.”

“I think so too, kid.” Frank grabbed his son on either side of his face, and before the boy could engage evasive maneuvers, planted a sloppy kiss on his forehead.

“Daaaaad!” Frankie pulled away, scrubbing at the spot he’d been kissed, frowning.

“Sorry bud.” Shrugging, Frank didn’t sound sorry at all. “I had to.” Then, addressing the rest of the living room, who were still crowded around Karen: “Alright, guys. Food’s almost ready. Go clean up.”

“Awwwww,” Zack groaned, flopping over onto his back. “It was just getting good.”

“We can play some other time, huh?” Karen paused the game and stood, stretching with her arms high above her head. Frank watched, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah. Plus, I’m starved.” Lisa popped up as well. “Thanks for playing with us, Karen.”

“Sure thing.” When Karen yanked gently on Lisa’s ponytail, the girl didn’t even protest. “Now you go wash your hands, huh?”

“Okay. Come on guys.” Lisa rallied the troops, and they headed into the kitchen. Frank waited until they were definitely gone before taking three, large steps toward Karen, sweeping her up in his arms and claiming her with a deep, wanting kiss.

She managed a small squeak before any other sound she could make was devoured by his mouth. It was a wild, consuming kind of embrace—had her feeling him right down to the tips of her toes. Teeth and tongue and hands grasping at her back.

When he finally pulled away, Karen had to fight the giddy laughter bubbling on her lips.

“Holy shit. What was that for, Frank?” She held his face in both hands, grinning, eyes bright.

“I just…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “Just didn’t think people like you existed.”

There were many things Karen loved about Frank (too many to count) but this was one of them. His tendency to say unbelievably lovely things without seeming to realize it. To speak so much beauty into her—make her feel treasured and cherished—as though it were the most casual thing in the world.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she stretched onto her toes and kissed his forehead. His eyes fluttered closed. She kissed first one eyelid, then the other, before brushing her lips across his own. It was feather-light and gentle.

“Frank! Karen!” Curtis’s voice yelling from the kitchen had them stepping away from each other quickly. “Come get your food before the kids take it all!”

 

It was one of the best family BBQs Karen had ever been to—it was the _only_ family BBQ she’d ever been to. They stayed out on the back porch until well into the dark hours of the evening, talking and laughing and sharing stories, the children running around the lawn playing games and catching moths. David and Curtis took turns embarrassing the piss out of Frank, relaying anecdotes from their high school years which he had conveniently skipped over in all of his late-night conversations with Karen.

Like the time that he tried to sneak into the school one night to spray paint the anarchy symbol on the principal’s door, but ending up locking himself in until the next morning. Or the weekend-long camping trip they took together when they were in 11th grade, for which they had prepared by buying a ridiculous number of fireworks to set off that Saturday night. Except Frank got the brilliant idea to tie five Roman candles together before lighting them, and ended up in the ER with one of his eyebrows completely burned off.

When Frank started grumbling too much, the tips of his ears turning red, Sarah decided to jump in and change the topic of conversation to the kids, and Karen got an earful of stories about Leo, Zack, Lisa, and Frankie. Some of which she’d heard before from Frank, but some of which were new. Like how Lisa dressed up as Spartacus for her fourth grade class’s living museum project, and almost got sent home for sneaking in fake blood capsules in her mouth, which she bit through at the dramatic dénouement of her presentation. Or how Frankie went through a phase, which lasted months, where he only wanted to dress like Calvin from _Calvin and Hobbes._

Sitting back and looking around the table, Karen was struck again by the concept of _family_ —of how beautiful it could be, when done right. But underneath all of the joy and belonging and contentment, she felt an undercurrent of melancholy beginning the crawl its way up her spine.

They could have had _this._ Her and her mom and Kevin. They could have had the laughter and the comfort and the sense of perfect wholeness that hung heavy over the evening. It could have been _their_ life, too, if not for her father. _God_ , how much they’d missed out on because of that man. How much they’d lost. It snapped at her, the bitterness, almost stealing the breath from her lungs.

Underneath the table, Frank’s hand closed over hers—warm and rough—and his thumb began a calming little sweep across her palm. Karen let out a deep breath and glanced at him sideways.

“You okay?” He mouthed, eyes a touch concerned. Karen nodded, and squeezed his hand in her own.

She was _now_.

 

The drive back into the city was peaceful, as Karen rested her head against the window of the passenger side and closed her eyes, watching the pale orange glow of the street lights illuminate the backs of her eyelids every time they passed underneath. Her body was still buzzing pleasantly with the feeling of Lisa and Frankie’s arms around her, giving her a goodbye hug before she and Frank hit the road. It was nice, feeling the aftermath of an embrace.

“You have fun?” Frank asked, his voice low and quiet. The way people tend to speak to one another late at night, in closed, comforting spaces.

“So much fun.” Karen whispered back. “I love your family.”

Something was glowing deep inside of Frank. “Pretty sure they love you back.”

“You know, it used to hurt, for a while, being around happy families. I didn’t like it; made me feel bad. But I don’t think it hurts as much anymore.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Reaching out, Frank grabbed Karen’s hand as it rested on her lap.

The sound of a text notification had her opening her eyes, reaching into her purse with her free hand and digging out her phone.

“Hmm.” She made a considering noise as she read the text from Trish. “Some good news.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember the kid I was telling you about? The one Trish thought might want Kevin’s truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Well he’s in. He’s starting a job in Texas in a few months and is going to need a set of wheels.”

“Ah,” Frank nodded. “So you finally decided someone is good enough for the truck.”

“Yeah, well I mean, the kid’s favorite book is _The Little Prince_. And he’s seen every Truffaut movie. I couldn’t have created a better candidate in a lab.” Karen grinned.

“You have some really weird standards for what makes a person good.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think _you’re_ good, so I maybe you don’t want to be criticizing my standards over there.”

Frank chuckled, shaking his head. “And you’re sure this is the right guy—you’re not going to back out at the last minute because he once listened to a Nickelback song when he was in seventh grade or something ridiculous?”

“Nope. This is it.” Breathing in heavily, Karen slowly exhaled. “It’s a little bittersweet, you know? Thinking about letting someone else sit behind the wheel of that truck. Take it on adventures.”

Frank bobbed his head—he knew that letting go would be rough for Karen, even with the perfect buyer. “When’s the kid going to pick it up from you?”

“In about a week.”

“So you’ve still got some time to say goodbye.”

“Yeah.” Karen turned to look out the window. “Still got time to say goodbye.”

 

Four Days Before Castle v. Murdock –

It was 8 o’clock on Friday night, and Karen was in her pajamas watching old episodes of _Chopped_ when the knob of her front door began to rattle. Jolting upright from her lounging position on the couch, her heart was instantly in her throat. She whipped around to stare at the door, frozen in terror, as her mind filtered through what she could possibly arm herself with in the next three seconds. There was a half-eaten tub of ice cream on the coffee table, an old copy of _The New Yorker_ next to it, and…a pair of knitting needles. Grabbing one in each hand, Karen shot to her feet as the door flung open, revealing…

“ _Frank?!_ ” The relief in her voice was undercut by the remnants of terror, and she let the needles fall from her hands, clattering onto the floor.

“Karen. Get dressed. I gotta take you somewhere.” In his hands he held the spare key she’d given him a few weeks ago. Bouncing back and forth from one foot to the other, he was clearly excited about something.

“Jesus! You scared the ever-living shit out of me.” She pressed a hand to her chest, heart still thumping wildly against her ribcage. “What are you doing here?”

With less than a week to go before the Murdock match, Frank’s training regimen had gotten a little bit wonky. Some days he was in the gym from dusk until dawn, going at it with Curtis until his limbs felt like they were about to fall off. And some days all they did was sit around and talk strategy, giving Frank’s body the chance to rest up and recuperate. Curtis insisted that there was a method to the scheduling madness, but Karen was a bit skeptical. It was getting difficult for her to keep track of the nights that he was available to laze around her apartment and spend a quiet evening together, and the nights where he’d practically pass out at Hoyle’s from exhaustion. But she could have sworn that he’d said he wouldn’t be available tonight—hence the ice cream and _Food Network_.

“No time to explain, Kare. We gotta get moving. I’m taking you somewhere.” He glanced around the apartment for a moment, eyes landing on her jacket strewn over the back of a breakfast room chair. “Go get dressed. Something comfortable.” He grabbed the jacket, tossing it her way.

Karen would have asked questions—God knows she had a million of them—but it was obvious from Frank’s manner that they were in a hurry. With one last, lingering look in his direction, she disappeared into the bedroom to pull on some jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Pausing before the vanity, she contemplated make-up, but decided it wasn’t worth it—would take too much time. Which clearly they didn’t have, because as soon as she reemerged, Frank was ushering her out of the door with haste, barely stopping to lock it behind them.

“Where are we going? I thought you were with Curtis tonight, you said—”

“It’s a surprise, Kare. Just trust me.”

They were on the street, weaving in and out through the standard evening bustle filling the sidewalks. Hundreds of people going God knows where on a Friday night—some clearly dressed for dancing, in their high heels and flashy dresses; others walking quickly, heads down, eyes to the ground, rushing to whatever appointments awaited them.

If Karen hadn’t been holding onto Frank’s hand so tightly, she was sure she would have lost him, he was moving so fast. Zigging and zagging between bodies. She had a brief, nostalgic flashback to the night at the Velodrome when he’d led her through the crowd of boxing fans and introduced her to the secret back hallways of the stadium. The memory caused a soft, sweet feeling to fill her veins.

As they turned down a few streets, heading three blocks north of her apartment, Karen suddenly got an inkling of where they were going. Her suspicions were confirmed when they drew to a stop in front of Mike’s New York City Parking, and Frank dropped  her hand to dig around in the front pocket of his jeans.

“Frank, are we…?”

“Ah-ha.” He held up Kevin’s truck keys. “Snatched ‘em from the kitchen while you were getting dressed.”

“Wait, what are we..?”

“You’re handing off the truck tomorrow afternoon, right? To the kid from Columbia?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Frank double-clicked the lock button until he heard the tell-tale beeping a few rows from the entrance. “I figured you might need one last night with it, you know? To say goodbye. I’ve got something planned, so come on.” Frank headed toward the sound of the alarm, leaving Karen rooted where she stood.

The feeling of affection that pummeled her senses was almost too much. That man—what on Earth had she done to deserve him?

“Get to it, Kare! Can’t stand around all night! Places to be!” He yelled over his shoulder, gesturing for her to get a move-on. She laughed, an effervescent sensation filling her lungs, and jogged to catch up with him.

 

She had absolutely no idea where they were going. She’d given up guessing after he’d turned the truck into a part of town she didn’t recognize. But it was perfectly alright, because as soon as they’d climbed into the cab, Frank had popped in _Pablo Honey_ by Radiohead—Kevin’s favorite album by his favorite band (Karen was incredibly touched that he had remembered; she’d mentioned the fact in passing several weeks ago). As she bobbed her head to the music, she was hit with a resounding certainty—she would go anywhere this man led her, and that was God’s honest truth.

They merged in and out of traffic, Frank seemingly very confident in his direction. It was a short drive—ten minutes, tops, before he pulled off of the major roads and began navigating his way through a small neighborhood. Poorly-lit, a little run down—like many of the less tourist-friendly areas of the boroughs.

“Okay, hold on. Almost there.” He turned the truck into what looked like an abandoned parking lot—cast heavily in shadow, enclosed by a chain link fence, and with only two other cars for company (both of which had windows blacked out with spray paint).

“Uh…” Karen twisted in her seat, craning her head with a furrowed brow. The walls of the buildings on either side of the lot were covered in layers of graffiti, some for local gangs she recognized. “This is the most murder-y place I’ve ever seen, Frank.”

He didn’t respond, just chuckling as he pulled into an empty spot, shifting the truck into park.

“Wait—we’re actually _getting out_ here?” Karen lifted her arms as Frank reached over and unbuckled her seatbelt. “Like…to walk around? In the dark? _Here_?”

“A guy’s gonna start thinking you don’t trust him if you keep asking questions like that.” With a raised brow, Frank leaned even further across her body to pop open the passenger door. His forearm dragged across her breasts, causing a potent tingle of pleasure to lick its way up her spine, cutting through the nerves. Biting her lip, Karen waited until he had slid out of his own side before leaving the vehicle.

“It’s not _you_ I don’t trust.” The air smelled like stale beer and smog—a classic New York combination—and she hugged her jacket closer around her body. “It’s literally everyone else in this city.”

“Come on.” Frank made his way around the truck, holding out his hand for her to grab. “I got you.” She took it—his rough palm sliding against her own; comforting—and he yanked her forward, sending her body colliding into his own with a yelp. His grin spread wide, for just a moment, before he dropped a kiss to her forehead.

“Alright then.” She raised her shoulders in a half-shrug. “I trust you. Take me somewhere magical.”

“Yes ma’am.”

They exited the parking lot onto a nearly-empty back street, and Frank began pulling her down a series of twisting alleyways, each more sketchy than the last. Broken streetlights flickering like visual alarms, shards of glass littering the pavement, obscene phrases sprayed on the walls. It was well and truly the underbelly of New York City. In any other circumstance, Karen would have been genuinely afraid, but with Frank by her side, it was kind of impossible; there was no doubt in her mind that if he was the one taking her some place, it was safe. He kept glancing sidelong at her with a little smile pulling at the corner of his lips—she’d never seen him so eager about anything before.

“Okay. Hold on a moment.” They turned one last corner before stopping up short in front of an unmarked door at the dead end of a back alley. Frank dropped her hand to knock three times—paused—then knocked twice again, in quick succession.

There was a breath of anticipation, in which Karen turned to him with a mixture of wonder and amusement in her eyes, and then the door opened a crack.

“Yeah?” A disembodied voice spoke into the darkness.

“Frank Castle.”

Another pause, and then the door was thrown open, Frank pulling Karen inside before she could react. Stumbling forward, it took her a moment to get her bearings—for her eyes to adjust to the suddenly bright lights—but when she did, she was half-way stuck between wanting to laugh and feeling like she was about to cry.

They were inside of what looked like an abandoned, gutted factory—damp and cool. A large, industrial space with cement floors and ironwork fixtures rusting away in shadowy corners. Steel support beams running vertically throughout the room, speakers blaring Iron Maiden hanging from each one. Rigged rather precariously from the catwalks overhead were bright lights, illuminating the massive, whirring crowd that was assembled in the middle of the room. Hundreds of people dressed in singlets and capes, or else sporting t-shirts with garish luchador masks emblazoned on the front; everyone holding a drink of some kind. In the middle of the mob, spotlights converging upon it like a beacon in the dark, was the jankiest wrestling ring Karen had ever seen in her life. Above the whole, beautiful mess hung an enormous banner with the words “Bronx Underground Wrestling” in large, block letters.

“Holy shit, Frank.” Karen clapped a hand over her mouth, and felt a sudden flood of mismatched emotion surge through her: excitement, nostalgia, disbelief, a deep feeling of humbleness, and beneath it all—constant, steady—love. So much love.

Frank was beaming at her, arms crossed over his chest, and he barely had time to respond before she was flinging herself at him with greedy, frantic hands, her lips covering his own. She kissed him deep and fast, stealing his breath without allowing him time to recover before pulling away again.

“Woah.” Frank staggered back a bit, regaining his balance, and took pride in the look of pure joy and affection on Karen’s face. “Good surprise?”

“The best surprise. I love it, Frank. _Kevin_ would have loved it. How did you _find_ this place?”

“The internet.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Found some lucha libre forum where some guy mentioned it. Had to go through this whole thing to get my name on the list.”

“The internet?” Karen huffed a laugh. “You _hate_ the internet.”

“Yeah, well…I wanted to do something special.”

“Well you succeeded.”

“I’m glad. Now let’s get a few supplies before the show starts, huh?” He jerked his head in the direction of the concessions and merchandise booths crammed along the sides of the building (all of which looked hastily-constructed).

“God, yes.”

So it was with a bright red cape fastened around her neck, and a beer in each hand, that Karen found herself squeezed next to Frank’s side, yelling and screaming in delight as Jack “The Decapitator” Wiggins threw The Son of Havoc around the ring like his plaything. Frank, wearing the most ridiculous black and white, skull-themed luchador mask Karen had ever seen, was right there with her—pumping his fists into the air every time a wrestler pulled a gravity-defying move. It was like every fantasy that preteen Karen had ever had, becoming reality. She almost couldn’t believe it—that _this_ was her life—that she had someone who cared about her enough to plan something so amazing. How on earth had she gotten this lucky? Frank had somehow managed to shove them through the crowd, stepping on toes and jostling drinks, until they were right up against the ring; Karen could have bottled the sweat coming off of the fighters if she wanted to.

The atmosphere was unbelievable, one match bleeding into the next with the crowd feeding off of the insane energy each fighter brought to the ring. It was everything Karen had ever loved about Lucha Libre and WWE as a kid—the implausibly dramatic introductions of each new character to enter the ring (Thunder Tiger was her favorite of the night; he’d been abandoned as a child in the wild jungles of Nepal, only to be adopted by a tigress who had lost all of her cubs to hunters), the contrived storylines of heel v. face (The Decapitator’s grudge match against The Son of Havoc centered around the fact that Havoc had poisoned The Decapitator’s mother in an act of revenge for stealing his father’s inheritance), and the obviously fake kill-moves that make lucha libre so electric and fun to watch.

“Oh my God! Did you see that?! Slammed him right into the ground!” Frank had one arm slung around Karen, squeezing her to his side as the roaring crowd erupted around them. She turned her head, burying her face into his chest, and breathed deeply. Closing her eyes, she focused on the chanting that rose from the mob of people, filling the entire space—the stirring sensation of hundreds of voices joining together in comradery; in celebration.

Kevin really would have loved this.

And for a brief moment, Karen could _feel_ her brother. Present and real. Not like an apparition or a ghost; not like his spirit from beyond the grave. But rather something _within_ her. As though every part of her that bore his mark—every personality quirk she’d picked up from him, every memory of his smile or his laugh, every bright, true thing she believed because of Kevin—lit up like a thousand sparks in the dark. So much of who she was she’d learned from her brother; so much of her life had been molded by his hands.

In an instant, she was awash in a deep and abiding truth: Kevin wasn’t really gone. So long as she lived her life to honor him, and to protect his memory, he’d never really disappear from the world.

A body is a temporary thing. A body can be destroyed and defeated and torn apart. But the true stuff of humanity—the heart and the compassion and the connection—that can be passed on. Karen didn’t believe in reincarnation. But she _did_ believe in science, and she knew that energy was neither created nor destroyed, simply repurposed, repackaged, and redistributed. Everything on earth recycled—air, water, soil, and even flesh. So maybe it wasn’t that crazy to imagine that parts of the human spirit were recycled too—that people’s lives never really die with their bodies. The most beautiful, precious parts living on in those they leave behind.

It was a lovely thought. A deeply, achingly sweet thought.

“You okay?” Frank pulled back a little, forcing Karen to lift her face from its place against his chest. He had to yell to be heard above the crowd, despite the fact that he was inches away.

“Yeah. I am.” Her smile was watery, and a little wrecked, but in a good way. Frank dragged his mask up through his hair to get a better look at her, eyes narrowed. She reached up to cup his jaw in one hand. “Really, I’m so fucking happy, Frank.”

“Good.” He bobbed his head, looking pleased. “Good.”

 

They stayed until the final match, which ended around one o’clock in the morning. It was a strange feeling, walking back to the truck—Karen was both filled with adrenaline and dead on her feet. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to collapse where she stood or run a fucking marathon. They didn’t go home immediately, instead taking a night drive around the city, Radiohead playing softly in the background, just talking. Mostly about Kevin. Karen reminiscing; retelling her favorite stories (which Frank had heard multiple times, though he really didn’t mind hearing them again). There was a kind of magic there, twining its way in and out of the air between them. The whispered memories, the quiet music, the feeling of an ending (that wasn’t truly an ending). Karen hadn’t been sure she’d be able to say goodbye to the truck when the time came—she had a habit of holding onto things long passed the time to let go—but this made it easier. _Frank_ made it easier.

That night, they made love in Karen’s bed—slow and tender. Shaky breaths, low moans, soft eyes catching on each other through the filtering moonlight. And when Karen fell asleep afterwards, head on Frank’s chest, she thought about how beautiful it was to be able to hold onto both the ghosts and living at the same time.

 

Castle v. Murdock – Day of the Match

            “Frank, sit down, will you, you know when _you_ pace, then I start to feel like _I_ have to pace. And then we’ll all just be pacing away, driving Curtis crazy, and then he’s going to yell at us, and it’ll ruin my good mood.” David Lieberman was babbling. He knew he was. It was how he handled his nervous energy. And with only two hours to go until the match of a lifetime, there was a lot to be nervous about.

 “Fine.” Frank stopped mid-stride and took a seat on the bench next to his manager. He immediately started fidgeting with his fingers, leg bouncing up and down. This was the worst part of every fight—just sitting in the locker room and _waiting_.

“You both need to calm the fuck down. You’re acting like we haven’t done this thing a million times before.” Leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, Curtis eyed both of his friends with a kind of calm that bordered on annoying. Frank didn’t know how he did it, but the man was insanely level under pressure.

“Yeah, but it’s different this time.” Shifting back and forth with uneasy energy, David ran a hand through his hair. “Right? I mean, it’s definitely different this time. This is like…this is a big one. The _biggest_ one. It’s not like all the other times.”

“Nope. Can’t think of it like that.” Curtis shook his head. “You’ll just freak yourself out. This is _just_ like every other time. That’s what you gotta tell yourself— _just_ like every other time.”

Frank closed his eyes, blocking them both out, and tried to concentrate. He swore that if he focused hard enough, he could hear the sound of thousands of feet stomping around two floors above—fans gathering in the stadium, painting it with a sea of red and black, eager for some action. No matter how much Curtis tried to convince them it wasn’t, this _was_ a big deal.

Frank’s first fight since the incident two years ago—his first attempt at jumping back into the ring—and it was against _Murdock_. The current #1 boxer, pound-for-pound, as ranked by the WBA. It was a crucial fight; a make-or-break moment. And if he fucked it up…well, he didn’t know where that would leave him.

In through the nose; out through the mouth. Calm, steadying breaths. He could do this. He _had_ to do this. For his kids, who were somewhere in the audience, tucked against Maria’s side and probably half-wild on concession candy. For Curtis and David, who had tied their entire lives to his own. For Karen, without whom none of this would have been possible. And for _himself_. To prove that he still had fight in him yet.

Frank was pulled from his meditative state by a pounding at the door. Three quick knocks—a pause—two more knocks. He knew instantly that it was Karen, and was out of his seat, yanking the door open, before Curtis or David could react.

“Karen, what are you--?”

She cut him off with a finger to his lips, glancing hurriedly over her shoulder and slipping into the locker room, the door closing behind her with a heavy thud.

“Shh, I’m not supposed to be here. I snuck away from the press holding area for a little bit, but the security guard was on my tail there for a while.” She turned around to wave at Curtis and David. “Hey guys.” They nodded in greeting.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay? Did you—” Frank’s was frowning, speaking quickly. His eyes flitted down Karen’s form; in her black pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and red lipstick, she was absolutely camera-ready. And stunning. So stunning it hurt a little bit.

“No, no, no. Everything’s okay. I just wanted to see you before the match. Make sure your head was on straight.” She reached up and grabbed his head in both hands, shaking a little bit as though testing to see how tightly it was screwed onto his neck.

“I’m fine. I’m good. Feeling calm.”

Curtis’s derisive snort had Karen raising a brow, eyes narrowing as they bored into Frank’s own.

“Really?”

“Uh…” he tried a half-hearted shrug. “I guess a little nervous. I don’t know.”

“Okay, well that’s what I figured.” Karen nodded. “So I’m going to give you a one minute pep talk, and you’re going to listen to me, okay?” She moved his head, still in her hands, in a forced nod. “You are the best fucking fighter I’ve ever seen in my life, Frank Castle. And I’ve seen a few. You’re smarter than almost every boxer out there, you’ve got more god-given talent in your pinky finger than Murdock has in his whole body, and you’re the most relentless, determined bastard in the game. I’ve seen you get up after hits a man twice your size wouldn’t have recovered from. You are champion material, okay?” She waited until Frank nodded, of his own volition this time. “And on top of that, you’ve got the best team in the world at your back. Curtis has done a hell of a job. You’ve studied Murdock; you know his moves; you have everything you need to counter anything he can throw at you. There’s no way you’re walking out of that ring without a victory. I promise you. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Good. Pep talk over.” She released his head, staring down at her watch and frowning. “Damn it, I’ve gotta get back out there.” Cupping Frank’s jaw in one hand, she held his gaze. “You got this. It’s going to be great. I love you.”

Without missing a beat, she turned around and marched her way out of the locker room, leaving Frank staring after her with his heart attempting to claw its way out of his throat. Adrenaline that had nothing to do with the upcoming match, and everything to do with the woman who had just rocked his world to the core and disappeared, engulfed his system.

It was dead silent. Curtis and David staring at Frank with a strange kind of intensity.

“Holy fuck.” He rocked back on his feet, just slightly, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed.

Karen Page _loved_ him.

 

It wasn’t until she was already gone, the door of the locker room swinging shut behind her, that she realized what she’d said.

 _Oh God_. Bracing herself with one arm against the wall, Karen ran a hand through her hair. Had she just told Frank she _loved_ him? And then just…walked away? Like it was the most casual thing in the world?

“Oh shit.” Looking over her shoulder at the closed door, she briefly contemplated going back in there and explaining. Saying something—anything—to rectify the situation. But what would she say? That she didn’t mean it? That would be a lie. That she hadn’t meant to say it? What good would that do? What was said was said, whether she meant to or not.

She was saved from having to make a decision by the screeching sound of Foggy skidding on uncoordinated feet as he turned the corner into the hallway.

“Gotta go, Kare! Gotta go now! Security’s on my tail!” He didn’t stop for even a second, barreling toward her and grabbing her arm.

It took all of Karen’s carefully-cultivated balance to keep from tumbling to the floor as he yanked her through one of the unmarked doors leading to the familiar network of back hallways. Moments after the door closed behind them, the sound of boots slapping on the concrete floor flew down the corridor they’d just evacuated—at least three security guards in hot pursuit of…nobody, now.

“Oh God.” Foggy bent over, hands on his thighs, panting. “Hope it was worth it. I’m never running like that again.”

“Yeah, Fog.” Karen patted his back comfortingly. “I hope it was worth it, too.”

Fortunately, Karen didn’t have time to dwell on the “I love you” issue for too much longer, because the second she and Foggy re-emerged into the non-restricted area of the stadium, everything was pure chaos. The kind of anarchy that makes reality feel a little unhinged.

A _normal_ WBA match was crazy—crowds of people jostling into one another, alcohol flowing, amped-up super-fans practically pounding their chests and screaming for blood. But _this_ match was on a whole other level. It was the most people Karen had ever seen before in her life, crowded into a stadium built for reverb and acoustics—the noise almost deafening. She genuinely felt bad for the security personnel, who had already had to pull apart three vicious fights in the lobby between fans garbed in red and fans in black. The energy was a buzzing, tumultuous force practically roiling through the assembled mob.

Karen had to elbow her way through the throng, cutting a path to the press box with Foggy close at her back. She knew she was stepping on a few toes as she did, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Karen! Hey!”

Whipping around, Karen locked eyes on Maria, who was standing on her toes near the entrance of the family suite, waving with a hand high above the crowd. On either side, pressed against her like their lives depended on it, were Frankie and Lisa.

“Maria!” Changing her direction suddenly, almost losing Foggy in the process, Karen began weaving her way over to their spot. “Hey! Hi!” She grabbed the other woman in a quick hug, then ruffled Frankie’s hair and squeezed Lisa’s shoulder.

“This is so crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Maria gestured around, eyes wide.

“I know. It’s an absolute madhouse.” Karen turned slightly as Foggy appeared at her side. “Oh! This is Foggy, by the way. Foggy, meet Maria, Lisa, and Frankie.”

“Hey! You’re the one who plays video games, right?” Frankie reached out, pointing at Foggy’s t-shirt (which bore the mark of The Outsider).

“Yeah! You game, little man?”

“Only, like, all day long.” Lisa answered for her brother, rolling her eyes.

Maria chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Foggy. We’ve heard so much.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Eyes darting around, lips pursed, Maria turned back to Karen. “You seen him today?” She didn’t have to clarify—Karen knew they were talking about Frank.

“Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“I think he’s good. A little nervous, but good.”

“Okay. Nervous is okay.”

“Dad’s nervous?” Lisa was yanking on Karen’s sleeve suddenly, trying to get her attention. “Did you say Dad’s nervous? Why is Dad nervous? He’s gonna win right?”

“Uh,” Looking back and forth between Maria and Foggy for some help, Karen crouched down (as much as she could in the thick, densely-packed crowd) until she and Lisa were eye-level. “He’s a little nervous, but believe it or not, that’s actually a good thing. Nervous people stay alert—they’re always on the lookout. It’s the confident ones you gotta worry about; they get cocky and slip up.”

Lisa eyed her for a moment, trying to decide whether or not she was shooting straight with her, or just doing that thing adults did where they lied to make you feel better. She finally decided on the former.

“Okay. I guess that makes sense.”

Karen bobbed her head, smiling at the girl, before rising up again. Foggy’s watch beeped out an alarm, and he nudged Karen’s side. “We gotta go. They’re about to open the box, and we want to get a good spot.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Turning back to Maria and the kids, Karen gave one, last, reassuring smile. “It’s gonna be great. I’ll see you guys later, okay? Have fun, kiddos!”

The Castle family was still waving their goodbyes when Karen and Foggy dissolved back into the crowd, disappearing in a sea of bodies.

Despite the fact that they showed up at the press box a little later than they had planned, they didn’t have any issue getting a good spot. Nobody wanted to get in the way of Karen Page when she was covering a Frank Castle match—it was the one thing they all remembered from the years pre-Castle disappearance: you fucked with Page and you had Castle to answer to.

As Karen settled into her seat, eyes trained on the ring far below, a thousand and one anxious little thoughts beat against the side of her skull. There was the match to worry about, of course—that was the number one priority of the day—because no matter how confident Karen was in Frank’s ability, there was always that little sliver of doubt that things could go horribly wrong.  Which was a bridge they’d cross if they ever got to it (and Karen prayed they never would).

But there was also the fact that, not ten minutes ago, Karen had told Frank that she _loved_ him. Completely unprompted, totally unplanned, absolutely out-of-the-blue. Which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t the most stressful thing going on at the moment, but it was to _her_. Because they hadn’t even had a real conversation yet about what, exactly, their relationship meant. What they were doing together. And Karen did not like to sling around the “L” word without knowing for sure that her feelings were reciprocated; love was some serious business. It was the kind of sentiment that toppled kingdoms and created lives and drove people to euphoria or madness. And she’d just…let it slip out of her mouth like a careless, weightless thing. Left before Frank could even react.

God, she was an idiot. A bumbling idiot.

“Kare! Kare! Holy shit!” Foggy was whacking her arm repeatedly, breaking her from her thoughts, pointing down at the ring. She’d been so distracted—so absorbed inside of her own mind—that she’d entirely missed all of the introductions and preamble. When she turned to look down at the ring, Frank was already making his way under the ropes.

“Shit.” She sat up, alert. _Damn_ —all of the pre-fight rigmarole was her favorite part. Shifting to the edge of her seat, Karen tried not to be obvious about how desperately she was straining forward to see every detail of Frank she possibly could. He looked glorious under the bright lights—like he was exactly where he belonged. Black boxing trunks, black gloves, bare-chested, beard trimmed shorter than it had been in months; Karen’s mouth was practically watering. He took a turn around the ring, rolling his shoulders as he went, and the noise that exploded around him was overpowering.

The crowd practically transformed into a gyrating, swaying creature, frothing at the mouth. Eager in a way that bordered on absolute anarchy; nothing but entropy in the air. A few moments later, when Murdock stepped out and made his way to the ring, the reaction was earsplitting. Both fighters, face-to-face. It was finally fucking happening.

Karen had never heard anything like it—never seen such a primal response from a mob of people. Her heart was instantly pounding in her chest, fingernails digging into the armrests of her chair as Frank and Murdock approached one another in the middle of the ring—touched gloves.

The air seemed to flush with a tense anticipation—Karen could have sworn her hearing cut out, there was so much adrenaline in her system. There were a handful of seconds where she was sure she would pass out as soon as the first bell dinged, signaling the start of round one, she was so tightly-wound. Taking several, steadying breaths, she tried to unclench, eyes on Frank.

Round One.

The audience held its collective breath as Frank began to stalk his way around the outside of the ring. Slow and steady; patient. There was throb of expectation, as thousands of eyes tracked Castle’s every move—waiting.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

Then a small murmur began to rise above the din of excited cheers. A noise of confusion. Murdock turned in place, watching Frank with curious eyes as he circled round and round.

 _What was he doing_? Karen could practically hear the unspoken question from her colleagues in the press box, as they seemed to strain forward, of one body, eyes trained on the ring below.

Everyone had expected Castle to come out of the gate like a mauler—fists flying; combos in the opening seconds. Force Murdock into the short-game with some preliminary in-boxing. That had, after all, been his tactic during 99% of previous matches, pre-disappearance. But not this time. This time, he was meeting Murdock style-for-style. Playing at the out-box; going on the defensive in the first, tremulous moments of the fight.

And clearly Murdock didn’t quite know how to react—he’d come in expecting the Castle he’d risen through the amateur ranks watching. The brutalizer with no patience for finesse. But Castle was dancing the out-ring like he had all the time in the world. And exactly as Curtis had suspected, Murdock reacted on instinct, switching into an offensive stance and going in for a quick flash as soon as he saw an opening. An opening Frank had carefully planned.

“Yes.” Karen whispered, her breath catching in her throat. Murdock landed a few hits—a 1-1-2—with Castle dodging _just enough_ for the damage to be near-minimal. Only someone schooled in the micro-expressions of Frank Castle, which were broadcast across four Jumbo-Trons above the ring, would pick up on the fact that the man was entirely unfazed. It was, after all, part of the plan: lure Murdock out early, gauge his power and technique, draw him into the offensive in the first few rounds. Push him out of his element by forcing his hand.

A smart boxer would have immediately picked up on Frank’s ploy; wouldn’t have fallen for the trap he was so clearly setting. And it wasn’t that Murdock wasn’t a smart boxer—he _was_ —it’s just that he assumed he was smarter than Frank. Didn’t even stop and think, for a minute, that Castle had come into the match with a month’s-long, carefully-planned strategy. It was a mistake people made all too often: underestimating how much of a tactical intellect Frank possessed. They saw the muscles and the broken nose and the quiet demeanor, and assumed The Punisher didn’t have anything going on in his head except _hit, punch, jab_.

But they were wrong. Dead fucking wrong.

The crowd was a-twitter; perplexed. The Frank in the ring was not the one they remembered from two years ago—all bravado and punch. He got in a few hits, a few precise jabs—but the slugger was nowhere to be seen. Not yet, anyway.

Murdock landed a mean right hook, and blood gushed from Frank’s mouth. (Again, a keen eye would note that Frank looked quite undisturbed by the hit—it was mostly cosmetic).

“What’s he doing?” Foggy leaned over, smacking Karen’s arm to get her attention. “I’ve never seen Castle hold back like this.”

“He’s doing exactly what he’s gotta do, Fog. Trust me. All part of the plan.”

“Jesus, it doesn’t _look_ like he has much of a plan. It looks like he’s getting pummeled.”

“Oh, honey.” Karen shot Foggy a sidelong look. “The day Murdock’s able to _pummel_ Frank, I will eat my damn shoe. And these are Prada.”

But Foggy was right—to an observer less intimately acquainted with Frank, it kind of _did_ look like he was being destroyed—and handily, too. They went three rounds in the same fashion: Frank playing the out-box, enticing Murdock into his sphere—slipping and dodging more than landing any hits himself. Taking the brunt of Murdock’s blows—over and over. The crowd was beyond unsettled. What the fuck were they watching? They’d paid good money to see the fight of the century—Murdock v. Castle in the bloodiest bout the WBA had ever hosted. And here it looked like The Punisher had just rolled over and given up. He wasn’t even putting up much of a fight at all.

But if there was one thing Frank had learned in his years on Lake Placid, it was that patience was sometimes stronger than rage. More powerful. The most artful tool a boxer had, if used properly. Because, despite the fact that it looked like he was being backed into a corner, he had The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen exactly where he wanted him.

Murdock wasn’t an in-boxer, and it showed. The rate at which he was going was taking way too much out of him; he was leaning far too heavily on his speed and footwork, trying to maintain his focus on out-maneuvering Castle while being lured into playing the part of the slugger. It was making him sloppy (this was something Karen had noticed early on in Murdock’s matches—the guy couldn’t do two things at once; he was either focused on footwork or making his jabs, but rarely could he do both at once). It was clear from the little dip in Murdock’s shoulders before he threw a punch; he was getting tired enough to begin telegraphing his moves. A rookie mistake.

But despite the fact that this was all part of the plan—that the strategy had been laid out for months—it was difficult for Karen to watch. Because Murdock _was_ landing hits—a lot of them. Nothing too bloody, or too rough—but hits nonetheless. If she hadn’t known exactly what Frank was playing at, she would have thought he was losing. Badly.

And that’s exactly what the crowd assumed. Damnit, but why wasn’t The Punisher… _punishing_? Why wasn’t he hitting back? What was with all the turning around the outside of the ring; what had happened to the powerhouse fighter who’d once knocked a guy out so hard he damaged the guy’s vision?

By the end of Round Four, the press box was a sea of confusion, as nobody knew how to describe what they were seeing. Everyone but Karen, grumbling and unnerved by the Frank Castle in the ring.

It wasn’t until Round Five that things began to shift. Karen knew what was coming the moment she saw Murdock’s follow through falter on the left jab he took: the guy was flagging. Exactly the signal she knew Frank had been waiting for (because she’d helped him identify it). Unused to laying on the close game so early in the match, The Devil had misjudged his stamina. He’d never tired in Round Five before, but that was because he’d never attempted to go in on offense before. It was all over for him now—Karen felt a giddy feeling building in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were trained so acutely on Frank’s form, she noticed the moment his posture changed. Shoulders squared, knees bent, tension filling every muscle in his body.

The slugger was out to play.

It came on so quickly, Murdock barely had to time to adjust to the change in demeanor—Frank was in his space, pure brawling energy, in seconds.

There was a flurry of fists, and then blood blooming bright and red on the canvas. _Murdock’s_ blood.

The crowd erupted— _this_ was what they had come to see.

The Devil, to his credit, was quick to catch on, slipping into his tried-and-true role as an agile counterpuncher, engaging some of that fancy footwork which, in the past, allowed him to slip almost every hit thrown his way. Except this time, it wasn’t going to work.

Karen could almost see the look of horror on his face when he planted his feet in the cat-step, angled his body to dodge and incoming blow…and Frank was _there_. Shifting the trajectory of his jab so quickly, it was almost a blur.

Direct hit. Devastating.

All of the air felt suddenly sucked out of the press box. Nobody had ever seen a boxer land a hit on Murdock when he’d fallen back on that footwork. Karen could hardly keep the smirk from her face.

“Atta boy, Frank.” She was practically squirming in her seat.

Rounds Six and Seven were pure chaos—Frank stalking Murdock with a relentlessness that bordered on almost cruel. Pushing him to the ropes every chance he got, backing him into a corner and pulling out some of his most devastating combinations. A barrage of fists almost impossible for the casual observer to keep up with. There was a moment, in Round Seven, where Frank landed a left hook so unbelievably powerful that Karen was a little worried the match would end right then and there.

But Murdock held his own—as best he could—still clinging to his agility and dexterity to get him out of a few rough spots. He managed to slip Frank a handful of times, saving himself from some truly shattering blows. But more often than not, Frank was able to spot his moves before he made them (it was all that silat training coming into play). He kept The Devil confined to the corner of the ring exactly where he wanted him—a game of cat and mouse where the mouse was quickly running out of steam.

It was brutal. It was _glorious_.

Round Eight was over almost before it started. It was clear to everyone watching that Murdock had out-punched himself in those earlier rounds. There was no power behind his swing—he was almost swaying on his feet. And without his fancy footwork to put him over the edge, every attempt he made at slipping and clinching was pointless. Castle had him gripping onto the very edges of his stamina.

 It was done.

The final blow was ruthless. Karen almost couldn’t watch. She saw it coming almost before Frank himself even knew what he was doing—it was all there in the lines of tension down the left side of his body.

Murdock threw a jab; Frank dodged, whipping around so quickly it gave the other man no time to react—and then he landed that left hook.

That cataclysmic, crushing left hook.

Murdock was on the canvas in seconds.

The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath for a beat—two beats—three. Murdock wasn’t getting up. The clock was ticking; Karen could almost hear the silent countdown in everyone’s minds.

8…

9…

10…

“It’s a fucking KO!” Foggy was yelling before Karen could wrap her mind around the fact that it was _finished_.

The entire arena cracked open in savage chaos. Karen almost couldn’t see the ring anymore, the bodies jostling around her keeping it from her view. There was a glimpse of a stretcher being brought in, Frank’s arm being lifted by the referee in triumph, and that was all she was able to catch before the press box got so rowdy that there was nothing to do but get swept up in the madness.

 

“Holy shit, Kare. I don’t even _like_ boxing all that much, but that was insane.” Foggy’s voice was an excited whisper as he followed Karen down the winding back hallways with which he had become very familiar over the years. “I mean, did you see that final blow? It was fucking brutal.”

“Yeah, Fog. Believe it or not, but I was watching the match too.” Karen raised a sardonic brow, glancing over her shoulder at her friend as he struggled to keep up with her clipped pace. His camera slipped a little on his shoulder, and he had to readjust quickly to keep it from clattering to the floor. They took another turn, and pressed up against the wall just in time to let a harried-looking concessions worker fly past with a tray of uncooked bratwurst. In the early days of Karen’s career, just after Frank had revealed the secret back passageways to her, the workers used to stare at her suspiciously when she and Foggy invaded their space. As though trying to figure out whether or not to report them being somewhere they _clearly_ weren’t authorized to be. But at this point, Karen and Fog were such familiar faces at New York’s many stadiums and arenas, nobody bothered them anymore.

“I mean, still. I’ve seen some crazy matches, but that was just wild. I thought the crowd was going to start an honest-to-god riot toward the end there.” Foggy followed Karen down a few more quick turns before they arrived at the door that would spit them out in front of Frank’s locker room.

Flinging it open, they were immediately met with the specter of a ridiculously-brawny man, clad in a black t-shirt with “Arena Security” stretched across the front, standing in front of the door marked “Frank Castle,” arms crossed over his chest. He jerked to attention as soon as he saw Karen and Foggy, each holding a microphone and camera, respectively.

“You can’t be back here. You gotta leave. No press for another hour.” His voice was hard as he squared his shoulders back, trying to look as authoritative as possible.

“Oh, uh…” Karen shot Foggy a confused look. It had been a long, long time since security had tried to stop her from doing much of anything around these parts. She’d forgotten all of her tactics for weaseling her way through.

“We know Frank Castle.” Foggy supplied. “We’re friends.”

“Uh-huh. And I take high tea with the Queen of England every Sunday.” The guard looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Now you two better move on before I _make_ you move on.”

“No, no. _She’s_ Karen Page.” Foggy pointed at Karen, who scrambled to turn her press pass over so that her name was visible. “You know, _THE_ Karen Page?”

The guard’s demeanor changed instantly, his arms falling to his sides and the hard lines in his face dissolving.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you.” He reached up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Shit, I’m sorry. You can go on in.” Stepping aside, he gestured at the door. “Can you not tell Mr. Castle that I threatened you, though? He really wouldn’t like that.”

“Oh, it’s fine. You’re fine.” Karen waved a dismissive hand, smiling reassuringly as she stepped passed the flustered man.

 

Frank looked up from his place on the bench as the door to the locker room opened; he squinted hard in an attempt to see through his left eye—the one not completely swollen shut. It had only been about ten minutes since he’d stepped out of the rink, bloodied and victorious. Karen must have booked it down from the press box.

“Good showing out there, Castle.”

He grinned (in spite of his badly split lip) as soon as he heard her voice—it was like fucking music to his ears. Managing to focus his good eye enough to get a look at her, he felt the instant clenching deep in his gut. She seemed like she was barely holding herself back from him, her body tight and buzzing, muscles tense; ready to spring toward him at a moment’s notice. His gaze flicked down to her hands, which were flexing, then curling into fists, in turn. But it was her eyes that really gave her away. Stormy blue. They had that dark, needy smolder—the look she got whenever she was thinking about tackling him down and pinning him to her bed. (Many of his most memorable evenings had begun with that smolder).

“Yeah. That was the best match I’ve ever seen.” Foggy appeared from behind her shoulder, and Frank glanced back and forth between the other man and Karen. His eyebrow shot up—he was sure if Nelson weren’t there, she would have been in his arms by now.

Taking a deep, clearing breath, Frank pushed down the current of need tugging at his gut, the one practically begging him to take Karen into his arms—damn the audience.

But no. He was nothing if not _civil_.

“Well hello there, Mr. Nelson. Miss Page.” He smirked, leaning back against the lockers, his head making a soft thudding sound as it hit metal. “First ones on the scene, as always.”

“You know me,” Karen shrugged, lips twitching. “Gotta get first blood.” She was trying so hard for casual—to pretend like this was any other interview she and Foggy had done with Frank—but the thickness of her voice was a little too obvious. She was all but falling apart at the sight of him. Her lack of composure was wearing at Frank’s resolve.

“Well,” He spread his arms wide (and Karen couldn’t help the way her eyes darted to all those sweaty, glorious muscles on display), “plenty of blood to go around.”

“I can see that. You gonna get a medic in here for that eye? Looks like you broke the socket.” Karen took a step forward, raising her hand as though to reach out and touch his face. Thinking better of it, she let her arm fall to her side, fingers trembling at the effort it took. Eyes burning, Frank caught the movement. He licked his lips.

“You know me,” he mimicked Karen’s statement, stare catching and holding her own. “I’ll just rub some dirt on it.”

Foggy cleared his throat from the doorway, looking between the two with amusement. It was ridiculous, how obvious they were being. How on earth could they not think he knew what was going on? It was almost a little frustrating…and a whole lot awkward. Fog was sure he could have cut the sexual tension with a butter knife.

Karen glanced up at her loyal cameraman as he cleared his throat again.

“You got a cough there, Fog?” She asked, lips pursed.

 “Just wanted to let you know we’ve only got a minute before we go live, Kare.” They’d promised Ellison that CBS NY would be the first station to get a single word out of Castle—at 9:30PM sharp. And it was 9:29. They didn’t have a whole lot of time for poorly-veiled foreplay. “How do you want me to set this thing up?” Foggy removed the cover from his camera lens, squinting through the eye piece.

“Uh…” Karen scanned the room, hands on her hips. “We can stand in front of Castle’s name on the locker. That okay? It’ll be a short interview—just a few questions—so you won’t have to stand for too long.” She looked at Frank, head tilted to the side.

“You can put me anywhere you want me.” He barely suppressed a grin at the blush that began to creep its way up Karen’s neck. Experience had taught him just how far down that delicious blush really went.

“Uhm yes.” Karen cleared her throat, gesturing for Frank to stand. “How about right here?” She moved into position, smoothing a hand down her skirt.

Frank rose with a deep groan, feeling his body protest at the movement. Karen’s expression immediately shaded with concern.

“You sure you’re okay? We can postpone for a bit if you need an ice pack or something.” This time she did reach out to touch him, putting a steadying hand on his arm as he sidled up next to her.

“Nah, I’m good.” He let his gaze dart down to her pale, delicate fingers on his skin, and felt the heat of it blaze a trail down his spine.

 _Fuck_.

It hit him all at once. She’d told him she _loved_ him—only hours ago, before the match, she’d told him she _loved_ him. He’d had to push it from his mind in order to focus in the ring, but now it was all he could think about; it was all that was pulsing through him as she stood within his grasp, so lovely and true.

He’d known he loved her—hell, he’d known it for a long time. And, on some level, he’d kind of known she loved him too. But to have her say it out loud? To know what it sounded like to hear those three words in her voice, directed at him? It was so much. It was everything. The power of it almost had his throat closing.

“Okay.” Karen nudged him gently, bringing him back to the present. “You pass out during this interview and I’ll never forgive you. It’s live, so we can’t edit it out.” Her voice was stern.

“Would make for great T.V. though.”

“True.” Karen pretended to consider for a moment. “Never mind. If you do pass out, give us a little warning so Foggy can get it all on tape.”

Frank snorted, then groaned again when his split lip began to throb.

“Sorry, sorry.” Karen hid a chuckle. “Won’t make you laugh again. I promise.”

“Okay.” Foggy cut into the conversation, having finished setting up his equipment. He reached into his bag and tossed an earpiece Karen’s way. She just barely managed to catch it. “Karen, turn that on.” She reached up to place the audio feed in her ear. “We’re rolling in 5, 4 , 3…” he trailed off, mouthing the last few numbers. Karen raised the microphone to her lips.

“Good evening, New York. I’m Karen Page for CBS NY, here in the locker room at Barclay Center with Frank Castle, also known as The Punisher, just minutes after his unbelievable victory over Matthew Murdock.” She shot a smile his way. “So tell me, Frank, how does it feel to be back in the ring after such a long recovery period?”

“Well, Karen.” Frank put a little something on her name—something that felt like affection. “Feels real good. Like coming home.” He shifted on his feet deliberately until his arm was brushing against hers. She raised a subtle eyebrow at the move.

“You certainly looked at home in the ring.” She turned her body toward him just a touch more, almost without thinking, and Frank barely reigned in his smugness. “Were you at all nervous about going up against Murdock’s singular brand of defense? Facing such an unfamiliar out-boxer with your style of slugging must have been a challenge.”

“Nah—wasn’t nervous.” Frank shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a move that made his muscles bulge, and he counted it a victory that Karen’s eyes darted quickly—almost imperceptibly—to his pecs. He knew her weaknesses, and wasn’t above exploiting them (the number of times they’d lain in bed together, Karen kissing and caressing her way down his chest—the woman wasn’t subtle about it). “Curtis had been training me like the devil leading up to the fight, so I was really prepared for anything Murdock could throw at me.”

“Speaking of Curtis Hoyle,” Karen tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear, and Frank tracked the move. He was a sucker for all that blonde hair. “In the last interview we did together, you mentioned briefly that he was instrumental in orchestrating your return to the ring.”

“Yeah, definitely.” Frank bobbed his head in a nod. “Curtis kept me thinking about the future while I was away—focused on recovery. Worked with my physical therapist to create a training schedule. Brought me tapes of matches to study. A lot of Murdock’s matches, actually.”

“I’m sure it was difficult being bedridden while Murdock climbed the rankings. Do you think the idea of facing off against him kept you fighting to heal?”

“For sure.” Frank dropped his arms again, letting the right one lightly skim down Karen’s side as he did so. Her delicate shiver was glorious. “Thought a lot about getting to reclaim my title while I was training. Also thought a lot about all the people I missed seeing while I was out of commission—the fans, my favorite reporters,” the twist of his lips entirely too charming, “my fellow boxers. Focused on them and it made recovery a lot easier.”

“Well, we certainly are glad to have you back.” Karen’s eyes skipped to Foggy, who was giving her the 30 second signal. Time to wrap up the interview. “We’re going to let you hit the showers, now. Thanks for taking the time to talk with us at CBS NY.”

 “Sure thing.” Frank smirked. “Always great to see you, Miss Page.”

“You too, Mr. Castle.” Karen’s face softened. She paused briefly before turning back to face the camera. “I’m Karen Page and this is CBS NY sports.”

Foggy gave her the signal that they were off air, and the room filled with a tight, heavy tension. It was surging off of Frank in waves. Hot and insistent.

He couldn’t help it. He really, truly couldn’t. He wasn’t a patient man under the best of circumstances and being so close to Karen—with her wide blue eyes and full mouth—for so long without being able to touch her? It was too much for him to handle. And the fact that she loved him—Jesus Christ, but a man could only be so strong.

Everything he had—all of it—was because of _her_. She’d been a beacon of hope in the darkest hours of his recovery; she’d awoken the part of him that craved vulnerability and human connection; she’d put him on the path to his comeback, and encouraged him every step of the way. She knew him in deep and terrifying ways—held every broken part of him in the gentle crook of her hand. _God_ , but his chest was practically splintering apart with the crashing wave of love that hit him. Pulled him under; drowned him (a willing victim).

Before Karen could react—before Frank really thought through what he was doing—he was grabbing her up and kissing her with a hunger that bordered on manic. Bloody mouth and all, his lip splitting further as he pressed it to hers. But he didn’t care. And neither did she—it felt _right,_ kissing Frank with the taste of iron on her tongue.

“Woah, I—” Foggy’s voice, pitched high with surprise, didn’t even penetrate the heat surrounding them. If anything, they pressed closer against each other, Frank’s hands digging their way into Karen’s perfectly-coiffed hair and tugging her further to his devouring mouth.

“I—uh—I’m just gonna... This is—” Foggy spoke again, but Frank and Karen either ignored him or they didn’t hear. “Yeah, just…I’m gonna…. _go_.” He turned to walk away.

It was the sound of the door closing behind him that finally had Karen and Frank pulling apart with a wet, sucking noise. Obscene. It was quiet—the only sound their syncopated panting.  And then Karen was laughing, almost giddily, as she stared over her shoulder to where Foggy had disappeared. “Oh God. Poor Foggy. Explaining that to him is going to be a fun conversation.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Frank reached up to cup Karen’s face in both hands, turning her head until she was looking at him dead-on. There was something so rich and piercing in those dark, brown eyes—it had Karen’s heart rate ticking up. “You just tell him that you love me. And that I love you back. Simple as that.”

Karen’s entire world seemed to tilt on its axis for one glorious, technicolor instant. The dopamine release in her brain like a flood of unfiltered euphoria.

“Did—do you—?” She couldn’t get the words out. Her heart was in her throat, trapping her voice.

“Karen, I love you so fucking much, you—” Frank huffed, a little annoyed that he couldn’t make the words he wanted to say come out right. “I see you, and it feels like coming home.”

“Frank.” It was all she could say—all she could manage to get out—before they were tangled in each other again.

And everything else in the world disappeared. All of the clawing, grasping, hateful things. All of the memories and ghosts that stalked them both—for a brief moment, they were gone. The beautiful things, too—the joyous screaming of the crowd two floors above; the hero’s welcome that was awaiting Frank outside the doors; the way Karen had felt watching him fight his way to the top of the world. All of those things disappeared as well.

The whole world just falling away.

And there was only Karen. And there was only Frank.

Two broken things, lugging around armor chinked and torn, resting in each other’s arms.


End file.
